


like A-B-C-D that could work so perfectly

by angelesblackqueen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Background Harry/Ginny, Background Remus/Sirius, College AU, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Smut, TA, background Pansy Parkinson/Astoria Greengrass, birthday fic, dramione - Freeform, multi-chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-03 22:15:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17886125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelesblackqueen/pseuds/angelesblackqueen
Summary: Hermione wouldn't even be the TA for this class if her summer abroad hadn't caused her to forget to file her application on time.But here she is, TA for crazy Trelawney's freshman lit class.And on top of it all, she has the annoyingly handsome Draco Malfoy ‘doctor-in-training’ trying to steal her job.





	1. if perfect was the kinda thing that worked for me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fangirl933laluna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl933laluna/gifts).



> So this is about 1...2...3...4...5...SIX months late and I know you're thinking 'MY BIRTHDAY WAS IN SEPTEMBER IT'S ALMOST MARCH' but um...better late than never? And also, somehow this short, sweet birthday one-shot has turned into a smutty multi-chapter of over 12,000 words and counting and honestly I have no excuse.  
> O, you're the best best friend in the world and even though this is astronomically late and you're not even into Dramione anymore...here's your promised fic. I added in some Wolfstar for you, and yes, there will be more of them in later chapters. ;) xx  
> Title from prfct by Sabrina Carpenter.

**Friday, November 2nd, 7:00 PM**

“Oh, dear, thank you so much for filling in for me for the next few weeks--oh, damn, I think I left my tarot cards in the wrong place--could you just adjust the wall hanging a quarter of an inch to the left? It disrupts the chi--”

“It’s not a problem, Professor,” Hermione says through a tight smile, using her shoulder to press her cell phone to her ear as she moves the wall hanging the desired distance--it was a frayed depiction of trolls in ice-skating outfits and she thinks its the ugliest thing she's ever seen. She doesn't tell that to Trelawney, though. Nor does she mention that it was already perfectly straight to begin with. In an office overflowing with as much clutter as this one, it hardly makes a difference.

“Yes, yes,” the English professor says, voice popping and clicking through her cell. “I'm about to board my flight--you’ll do fine, you are a TA and a senior so I should hope you know how to manage a freshman lit class--just stick to the syllabus--”

Hermione eyes the pile of papers and knickknacks and general chaos that positively threaten to make Trelawney's desk collapse and asks, “Professor, where exactly is the syllabus?”

The connection pops and crackles. “--in the--left drawer. Bottom left drawer--”

Hermione crouches down to look at the drawer in question, the waistband of her jeans digging into her stomach. “The drawer in your desk or in the bureau with the stuffed animals on it?"

“The desk, of course," Professor Trelawney says. “Now about the other--”

The line crackles and then cuts off.

“Hello?” Hermione presses the phone to her ear for a few seconds, then sighs and drops her arm.

“Of course,” she mutters, glaring at the chaos around her. It’s not like teaching a whole class is foreign to her--she’s twenty two for God’s sake--and she's TA’d for some wacky people before. But this was shaping out to be the worst of all.

"Ooh, I recognize that face. Trelawney done some crazy shit again?” A voice speaks from behind her and she twists to see Ginny leaning dramatically against the open door, a smirk on her face.

"Ha ha,” Hermione responds dryly as she hauls herself to her feet. “Just trying to find the syllabus is all.”

Ginny snorts, tossing back her red hair. She's wearing an Oxford Women’s Basketball sweatshirt that is three sizes too large and a pair of strappy gold stilettos, and is somehow managing to pull it off. “Good luck in this mess."

Hermione rolls her eyes, brushing a strand of her curly hair out of her face. “What are you even doing here, Gin? This is the faculty wing and I know you're not here to see a teacher because a. I am literally the only person here and b. you wouldn't be caught dead actually meeting with a higher authority.”

“Mm, well maybe if it was for a hot shag in their office.” Ginny considers. "But they'd have to be really, really hot. And have very skilled fingers. I'd don't get off for mediocre talent. Anyway, I'm here because you asked me earlier--and I quote-- ‘Ginny Weasley, light of my life, please pick up my boring arse at the equally boring faculty building at 7 o'clock this evening so we can go get totally hammered with the boys and make a bunch of bad decisions we will regret the next morning.’" She raises her eyebrows. "And will you look at that, miracle of miracles, it is indeed 7 o’clock. So let's get moving, loser.”

Hermione gives her a look that clearly translates to 'fuck off’ as she grabs her bag of the floor. "Fine," she sighs. “I'll have Mrs. Norris email the lesson plans to me when she finds them.”

Ginny beams. "That’s my girl. Make shifty old bags do the work for you.”

Hermione fights the urge to roll her eyes again as she steps out into the hall and locks the door to Trelawney's office behind her.

She wasn't even supposed to be a TA this year--but she got back late from her summer abroad and she had to make up credits and somehow she got saddled with crazy Trelawney and Freshman Lit 102.

"I thought senior year of university was supposed to be _fun,”_ Hermione grumbles as they walk through the lobby of the stone building. She crabbily begins to braid back her frizzy hair. “Not extra classes and grad school and student loans coming due.” She looks at her friend. "Be glad you don't have to deal with it yet."

“Oh, trust me I am,” Ginny says, flashing her a grin as she pushes open the double doors to the common. The night air is fresh and cool, and only a few late night students are walking across the lawn. Ginny continues, “Gives me so much more time to have fun being a wild sophomore. Uni's supposed to be a good experience, not for actual _learning,_ Hermione.”

Hermione snorts, hefting her bag higher on her shoulder and smiles at her friend. “I’m sure your Mum is delighted. Now come on, I'll call us a cabbie.”

* * *

 

**Monday, November 5th**

The doorbell is ringing and Hermione is seriously considering murder.

“Monday mornings can go to hell," Hermione grumbles to herself, eyes half-closed as she plods down the hallway of her flat. Her vision is blurry and her head in pounding from a combination of lack of sleep and a few more shots of tequila than she should've indulged in. “For fuck’s sake, I'm _coming--"_

The door wrenches open and Harry, fist halfway through another pound, blinks blearily at her. “I woke up in the garbage bin outside Ron's building," he says, his hair sticking up in the back, glasses crooked and usual array of colorful scarves layered haphazardly around his neck.

Hermione grits her teeth. "It is six in the fucking morning," she hisses, her brain trying to pound its way right out of her skull. “Six. In. The. Morning. And I know you have a key to my flat so why in hell's name are you banging on my door?”

Harry blinks at her. “I have a key to your flat? Why don’t I remember that?” He blanches and groans. "Ow, migraine, head pounding--too much movement. Shouldn't have skateboarded here."

“You skateboarded here? You don’t even own a skateboard!”

“Bought one last night. It matches my new tattoo.” Harry gags. "May I please go throw up in your toilet?”

Hermione closes her eyes. Sighs. “Go ahead.”

Without another word Harry barrels past her and for a moment Hermione just stands there, looking out at the empty corridor with its fluorescent lighting and worn down grey carpets.

_Mondays._

And drinking. Not a good combination.

Hermione groans quietly and turns around, shutting the door behind her as she blearily shuffles back down the hallway--newly painted a robins egg blue that she’d originally hated, but was beginning to grow begrudgingly fond of.

Harry’s sitting on a barstool, head resting against her kitchen counter. He doesn’t look up at her approach, but his muffled voice filters through in a plaintive wail. “I feel like shit.”

“Well, that generally happens when you drink seven beers and three whiskey sours,” Hermione replies, dragging out the other stool--she winces at the screech--and slumping into it. “I’m not much better.”

Harry cracks open an eye and peers up at her. “Right. Forgot about that. How're you?”

“Hellish,” is her reply. A groan. “And I have a 9:30 class.”

Harry blinks a few times, tired brain trying to keep up. He yawns. “So? This early in the quarter, all the teachers are doing is lecturing. Just get a seat in the back, put on some sunglasses and fall asleep behind your mountain of books. Hey, do you have any Fruit Loops?” He reaches blindly across the counter, almost knocking over her coffee maker.

The weak morning sunlight coming in through her living room windows knifes straight into her brain. “No, I’m not taking the class.” She rubs her forehead and yawns. Harry’s a bad influence on her. “I got roped into TA-ing for Trelawney for this quarter,” she grumbles, “and she’s on vacation in Venezuala until December 1st, so I have to cover for her for the next few weeks. Mrs. Norris just sent me the syllabus--” she gropes around for her bag, which she left underneath this very stool last night when she stumbled in at 3 A.M. Which means she’s gotten only three hours of sleep. Fuck.

After a few seconds of blind fumbling, she grabs the file and opens it. She blinks blearily. “It’s...handwritten. Does that say...” she wrinkles her brow. “Have students roleplay murder scenes from...Macbeth?”

Harry squints at her with one eye open. “Sounds messy.” He yawns. “And legally suspect. This is why I don’t TA.” He perks up a bit. “Hey, I don’t have any classes until afternoon. Can I make use of your strategically empty bed?”

Hermione hauls herself upright with a groan. “Just so long as you and Ginny don’t use it for any of your weird sex games.”

“How about non-wierd ones?”

Hermione doesn’t even dignify that with an answer. “I’m going to take a shower,” she says, stretching as she stands. She winces at the pop her bones make. “Do whatever. There’s Fruit Loops in the cabinet.”

Harry’s face splits into a wide smile. “You’re the best.”

Hermione doesn’t stick around to watch her best friend devour his (disgusting) favorite food, and fifteen minutes later she's stepping out of the shower, head pounding a little less and stomach growling.

Her phone is sitting on the sink and as she pulls on her jeans it dings with an incoming text message.

She picks it up and glances down.

 

 **Ginny:** _real fun last night. Good luck for the poor souls who have classes today. #playinghooky_

 

 **Ron:** _*green looking emoji* fuck you_

 

 **Ron:** _ughhh_

 

 **Ginny:** _if the frosh lit students sass you, H, let me know. i’ll kick their asses xoxo_

 

 **Ginny:** _now everyone bugger off so I can sleepppp_

 

Hermione’s lips twitch and she types back:

 

 **Hermione:** _Thanks. Just so you know, I’ve got Harry. Off to class. Pray for me._

 

“Hey, I think I'm going to head out now actually,” Hermione calls out as she steps out of the bathroom, toweling off her hair. “I need coffee before my class. Do you want me to get you anything?”

There’s a groan from the direction of her couch--apparently Harry couldn’t even make it to the bed--and a flailing arm waved in her direction.

Hermione sighs, head still aching, and grabs her bag and the syllabus--useless though it is--and walks towards the door. “Sleep,” she says. “It’ll do you good.”

Another groan.

Hermione pulls on her coat and steps out into the hall, shivering at the draft as she locks the door behind her.

Her flat is on the second floor of a slightly worn down building in downtown Oxfordshire and the majority of the residents are broke university students and a few old women who enjoy judging Hermione’s clothes and visitors far too much.

It’s a gray, rainy day and the cold droplets splatter her face as she walks briskly down the sidewalk, cursing the fact that her car is in the shop again and she is far too hungover to be walking, much less teaching a class.

Her favorite coffee shop is open, thankfully, and as Hermione waits for her coffee--tall, extremely strong, a dash of milk--she looks over Trelawney’s syllabus again.

**Dramatic Lit, 102. Freshman.**

Fuck, freshman were always so pretentious in the morning. Or all the time really.

“Hermy-nin-nee.” the Bulgarian barista calls out, completely butchering her name.

Hermione shoves the laminated sheet of paper back into her bag and reaches for the cup. “Thanks,” she says. “And it’s Hermione. Her-my-own-knee.”

“Herm-innin-ee.” He smiles. “We have dates today?”

“No, it’s--nevermind,” Hermione sighs. “And I have class today, Viktor, as I told you when you asked me yesterday. Have a good day.”

They have this conversation every time she comes in, and she isn’t entirely sure if Viktor is actually oblivious to her less than romantic inclinations to him, or he just enjoys using the word dates as much as possible.

Stone buildings and people hurrying across rain-slicked pavement greets her outside and Hermione checks the time on her phone as she blows gently on the steaming coffee.

9:17 A.M.

She’s only ten minutes from campus thankfully, and she took a second Advil in the coffee shop, so her head has almost stopped pounding, and Hermione’s almost feeling like a human being by the time she enters the St. Cross Building.

For a classic lit class, its in a surprisingly modern building, and only a few people are milling in the corridor. Only freshman and sophomores really take the introductory English classes, so Hermione doesn't recognize any of the students, but a few of the Professors smile at her.

Hermione waves at her old History of Literature teacher, then takes a deep breath as she comes up towards the double doors that lead to Trelawney’s classroom. It's still five minutes till class starts and the doors are still shut, so she leans against the wall and examines the syllabus again while she waits.

It’s almost impossible to read the cramped handwriting and Hermione feels a stab of irritation as she squints at it. Apparently they were supposed to be doing a Shakespeare block and today was--of course--Romeo and Juliet.

Hermione’s heard the same story and theories and diagnosis of themes spun over and over by teachers and TA’s over her last three years of uni and it was never any more original than the last.

She sighs. This is going to be fun.

Hermione finishes off her coffee and walks a few feet away to throw it away in the rubbish bin, then pauses.

Muffled voices echo faintly from behind the doors and her brow furrows.

She grabs her bag and turns the handle, pushing the door open--

Fifty students sitting in rows in the bleachers turn to look up at her and a man with blonde hair is standing by the lectern, mid-speech. His eyes slowly travel up towards her.

Hermione’s breath whooshes out of her and she can feel her cheeks burn. She’s at the very top of the bleachers and it feels like there’s a spotlight shining directly on her.

The blonde man’s brows flick up and after a moment he speaks. “Well, well, a late student. What a true novelty.” His voice is an arrogant drawl that immediately sets Hermione on edge.

She clenches her fingers around the strap of her bag and speaks up. “No, actually—I'm not a student. Well, I am, but I’m a senior and I used to take classes here--this class actually, back when Professor McGonagall taught it---but I don’t…well, I don’t take any classes here anymore—” she realizes she's rambling and shuts her mouth. The blonde man’s expression of disdain hasn’t changed and she feels a little like dying. “My name is Hermione Granger,” she says carefully, with as much composure as she can muster. “I’m Professor Trelawney’s TA. She asked me to cover the class for her while she’s on vacation.”

The students murmur.

The blonde man raises an eyebrow and leans back against the lectern, crossing one ankle over the other. “Really.” His posh London accent paired with what looks like a 100% silk shirt screams snob. “That's quite odd--Granger, did you say your name was?--because Professor Trelawney also asked me to cover this class.” He smiles thinly. “You see, I'm her research assistant for her Physics class and, as you can see, I’ve already begun teaching.”

Hermione’s jaw clenches. “I see.” She begins to walk down the steps. “Well, clearly this is all just a big misunderstanding, Mr--?” She pauses.

His lip curls. “Malfoy.”

“Right, Malfoy.” She raises a brow at him. “As I said, a misunderstanding. I'm sure Professor Trelawney just got her signals crossed. And since I’m the TA for her lit class and I’m sure you have much better things to do, I can take it from here.”

“Unnecessary,” Malfoy says, words clipped, but low enough that only she can hear.

Hermione sets her bag down and crosses her arm, very aware of the students watching their every word. “I assure you it is. However, if you're so set on teaching the freshman intro to literature, be my guest. We can co-teach.” Her smile freezes. “For today, at least.”

Before he can protest she turns to face the class. “Hello everyone, sorry for that little interruption,” she says, smiling at them. “I'm Hermione Granger, and I’ll be co-teaching with Mr. Malfoy for now.”

Malfoy seems to recover and he moves to stand just slightly in front of her. “Yes, it’ll be...interesting," he says, side-eyeing her with obvious hostility. “Now, to get back to the learning that all of you so obviously need--”

A ripple of laughter and Hermione scowls.

“Open your textbooks to page 27,” Malfoy continues. “You’ll see that the author drew a comparison between Oscar Wilde and the modern--”

“Wait, hold on a minute,” Hermione says, raising her hand. She looks at Malfoy. “We're supposed to be doing Romeo and Juliet today. It's a Shakespeare block for the next three weeks.”

Malfoy sneers at her. "Shakespeare is overdone. Every single lit class in the world covers Shakespeare. If they got into Oxford, I would assume they have some knowledge of the subject from high school. Oscar Wilde is much more interesting to learn about.”

Hermione stares at him. “But it’s not on Trelawney’s syllabus,” she says. “She put me in charge and I won't let you--”

“Hey, we don't really care,” a student in the front row says. Her short hair is braided in cornrows and her eyes are bright blue. She smiles somewhat sheepishly. “And I did ace my Shakespeare final in secondary school, so...”

Hermione’s jaw clenches and she turns to the rest of the class. “Is this how all of you feel?”

There’s some murmurs and a few nods and she can practically feel Malfoy's smugness.

He gives her a little smirk, and goes over to the lectern. “As I was saying, before Miss Granger interrupted me...”

* * *

 

**7:02 P.M.**

“He is the _worst_ human being on this entire planet!” Hermione snarls, throwing another skirt off to the side. “He just---ugh!”

Ginny snorts, sprawled on Hermione's bed. “Sounds like you've got your hands full in that class.” She examines her chipped gold nails. “This is why I don’t TA.”

Wearing only a pencil skirt and a black bra, Hermione twists around. “Hey, why does everyone keeps saying that to me?” she asks. “Anyway, I don't know how I can last another month of this. You know he barely let me talk the entire class? Once I stopped fuming about him changing the syllabus--”

“God forbid," Ginny snorts.

“--I do actually know quite a lot about Oscar Wilde and there was a ton of things I could teach them about it, but he just changed the subject every time I tried to speak, or gave the students a worksheet to do, or just sneered and said, ‘Granger’ _. Granger._ ” She fumes. “As if we're in high school or something.”

“Well, with a name like Malfoy, I’m sure the kid grew up with something of a complex,” Ginny says and sits up with a groan. “Ugh, basketball is murder on my lower back. You know we're going to Nationals this year?”

“Yeah, Luna told me. Congratulations by the way. But can we focus, please?”

Ginny grins unrepentantly. “Sorry. Why don't you just call Trelawney and ask her to kick the arse to the curb?”

“I would,” Hermione grumbles, turning back to her closet. “But she's doing a retreat in Venezuela for the next two weeks, so I can’t reach her until then. And as soon as class ended, Malfoy was gone, before I could even talk to him or talk about our game plan for the next class, which is in two days.”

“Hm,” Ginny says. “Well, you’ll see him tonight, won’t you? Big teacher party, with weak alcohol and all the drunk, creepy, misogynistic professors we had our freshman year?”

“If he even shows up,” Hermione scoffs.

“It’s a 50/50 shot,” Ginny shrugs. “Hey, you know if he’s still an arse tonight you can make yourself an even bigger pain than he is to you. Beat him at his own game.” She smirks. “I can help.”

Hermione shoots her a look. “ _No_ sabotage, Ginny. I’m an adult, and so is he. We will be taking the high road.”

Ginny didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t say anything else on the subject, instead crossing her legs and raising her eyebrows. “So, is he hot?”

_“Ginny.”_

“What, it’s an honest question!” Ginny defends herself. “I want to know how badly I can hate him.”

"Will my answer change your opinion?” Hermione asks.

“Definitely.”

“You're so shallow, Ginny,” she says, then sighs at her friend’s expectant look. “Fine, yes, he’s hot.” She scowls. “Unfortunately.”

“Muscles?”

“Yep.”

Ginny grins. “Hmm,” is all she says.

Hermione holds up two shirts. “Okay, now that you're done being thoroughly creepy, tell me which one I should wear.”

Ginny squints. “You're wearing the red heels, right?”

“Only because Crookshanks peed on my flats and they're the only pair I own, but yes.”

“Okay.” Ginny hops up off the bed and grabs both shirts. “Right, ditch the shirts and pencil skirt, you’ll look like a partner at a law firm--you want to look good next to Mr. Hot-and-Hostile--and go with that red off the shoulder dress you bought last year for Cho’s wedding.”

Hermione frowns. “Ginny, all my teachers are going to be there, and that dress is skin tight--”

“Exactly," Ginny says smugly. “You’ll look great. And the red is dark enough not to be too eye-catching, so you don't have to worry. Hair down, stud earrings and a black jacket. No tights. If you’re self-conscious you can keep the jacket on.”

Hermione purses her lips, begrudgingly considering her option. She sighs. "You have a point with the skirt-and-shirt combo, but I’m not wearing the dress. It’s a staff party, not a club.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Ugh, fine. Wear the dark blue dress and add that dark brown belt and I just went shoe shopping, so you can borrow my black heels. Thank God we're the same size.”

Hermione sighs in relief. “Thanks, Ginny.”

The red head eyes her. “Uhuh. Now get dressed, bitch. I have a quiz tomorrow and I need my beauty sleep.”

* * *

 

**8:00 P.M.**

Despite her earlier frustrations, Hermione is determined to be mature about the situation.

The staff party is something she doesn’t necessarily enjoy going to, but since her mother used to be a professor at Oxford the teachers always invited her and this year some of the senior TA’s were invited. Since she and Malfoy are Trelawney's replacements it is required that they be there.

They are hosting it in the dining hall of one of the sophomore dorms that Hermione vaguely recognizes as the place where Luna used to live last year and the cold bites into her through her coat. making her shiver as she climbs the stairs. The low heels Ginny loaned her click on the stone.

Voices filter through the doors and Hermione braces herself as she pushes them open.

Sure enough--

“Mis Granger! Oh, how _lovely_ to see a former student again.”

Hermione puts on a tight smile. “Hello, Professor Slughorn.”

It truly is an unfortunate name, that belongs to an equally unfortunate man--her old Biology professor, who ‘never forgot a face’.

At least not the famous ones.

The portly man chuckles at her, the dim lighting of the dining hall and the milling teachers everywhere not diminishing the brightness of his lime green jacket. “Hello, indeed. Yes, I never forget a face that I've taught--no sir! Say, how’s our friend Harry doing these days? Any plans for life after graduation? Because I would be happy to set up some interviews with a few of my old connections--and for you as well, of course, Miss Granger. In fact, I’m throwing a party with some of my best alumni next week. I'm inviting my most promising students, and the two of you would naturally be invited.”

Hermione restrains herself from rolling her eyes with difficulty. “Harry is fine. Studying hard. I’m not totally sure what his plans for after graduation are, but I think he's considering going into the police academy.” She doesn't address his party invitation, as its one of many she’s gotten over the course of her university career.

Slughorn’s eyebrows raise. “Oho! Well, many of my former students went on to join that same fine institution. Why, just yesterday I got a postcard from--”

“Horace, there’s a situation in the dorms that require your immediate attention.”

Hermione’s face splits into a smile and she twists around to look at Professor McGonagall, whose usual disproving expression is aimed right at Slughorn.

Slughorn sputtered. “A situation? Surely one of the other teachers...”

McGonagall’s lips thinned. “Last I checked, Professor, the sophomore students were your responsibility, were they not?”

Slughorn’s expression turns sulky. “Well, yes, I suppose they are...just one moment, Miss Granger, I’ll be back in a jiffy--”

McGonagall watches him go off with a blank expression, then turns to Hermione. “I’m glad to see you here this evening, Miss Granger." Her expression seems to turn shrewd. “I thought perhaps you simply sent Mr. Malfoy in your stead.”

So he was here. Great.

Hermione smiles tightly. “Of course not. I'd never shirk responsibility like that.”

McGonagall's expression seems approving. “Of course not, from one of my best students. Speaking of academics, I hear congratulations are in order. Harvard will be lucky to have you.”

"Thank you, Professor,” Hermione says, hiding the way she stiffens at the name. She quickly steers the conversation in another direction. “I actually had a question for you. It’s about Malfoy. You see I wasn’t aware that there was a second TA for the class, and I'd prepared to teach it by myself and I’m sure Mr. Malfoy has much better things to do with his time, being a research assistant for the Physics department and everything.”

McGonagall frowns. “It is unusual, I suppose, but goodness knows I can't claim to understand anything Sybil does. And I'm sure she had her reasons.” Her expression is knowing. “And it's only the first class, so I'm sure things will smooth out soon enough. But I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.”

“But--”

“Please excuse me,” the professor says, looking over her shoulder. “I think Severus and Pomona are about to get into it over the punch bowl.”

Hermione watches her go, then a voice speaks from behind her.

“Trying to get rid of me. How original.” Malfoy strolls over to her side, looking immaculate in a white button down shirt--silk again--and a pair of black slacks. His blond hair and grey eyes gleam under the lights. “Believe me, Granger, I am less than thrilled to be working with you as well.”

Hermione glares. “What is that supposed to mean, Malfoy?”

He gives her a slow once-over, then meets her eyes. The cold in them startles her. “Listen to me right now, Granger. I'm a medical student in a top university, I have goals in life. Teaching a class with a snippy, by-the-book English major is the last thing I want to waste my time doing. But unfortunately it’s a requirement for pre-med students in their first year and Trelawney's lit class was the only thing left. I will not back down here because you have a certain idea about how things should be run. So you might as well give up now.”

Hermione’s eyes narrow, blood starting to boil in her veins. “Well, you listen to me,” she seethes, keeping her voice as low as possible. “I may be an English major but I can push just as hard as you can shove. So don’t expect me to give up anytime soon.”

Malfoy's expression doesn’t change. “We’ll see about that.”

Before she can retaliate he’s turning and disappears off into the crowds.

Hermione stands there, glaring after him.

She doesn't hate many people. But Malfoy might make the list.

_Take the high road, my arse._

Maybe Ginny did have a few good ideas after all.

He's messing with the wrong person.


	2. but I wanna feel nervous, just a little bit off the edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is honestly the fastest I have posted a second chapter for something. Like, ever. Also for the first time, I actually have a structured outline, so this fic is going to be five chapters + an epilogue and for those of you wondering about that kind of thing...yeah, starting in the next chapter y'all might want to make sure no one is reading over your shoulder. It's slow (ish) burn Dramione, so of course there's going to be smut.  
> Also, I am sorry for the large amount of cursing in this chapter (but really not), fangirl933laluna, I blame you entirely.

**Wednesday, November 7th, 9:00 A.M.**

Hermione leans against the lectern in the classroom, warm cup of coffee held in her cold hands. She keeps an eye on her watch, occasionally blowing on the hot liquid as she waits.

A few minutes later, the door swings open and Malfoy walks in, looking at his phone.

He comes to a halt, blinking. “Granger.”

Hermione smiles pleasantly at him. “Good morning, Malfoy. I thought I'd get here early today, just to prevent last time’s little...mishap.”

His eyes narrow. “Of course. Wouldn’t want your abysmal time-keeping skills to cut into other people’s precious lives."

 _I want to punch you in the face so badly,_ she thinks to herself, but aloud she says, “Indeed. By the way, I hope you don't mind, but I sent a group email to the class. Did you get it?”

Malfoy’s expression is cold. “Must have gotten lost in the mail.”

“Mm, of course. Well,” Hermione straightens, grabbing her bag off the floor. “I thought we’d have a little off-campus venture today. Really showcase the true lives of the classic writers.”

His glare could cut stone. “What.”

She smiles at him. “We’re going on a fieldtrip today, Malfoy,” she explains. “To the Sylvia Plath Museum downtown. I just came to get my notes for the lesson today.” She looks around. “Oh, silly me, I just remembered I brought those home with me on Monday...” she shakes her head and grins. “Really need to start drinking more coffee. Anyway, I’d best be off before traffic gets too bad. We’re all meeting at the museum at nine thirty.”

“Granger...” Malfoy says through gritted teeth, but she’s already walking past him.

“Bye!”

In the corridor outside, Hermione allows herself a small grin of victory.

_Game on._

* * *

 

“As we walk through the museum, I want you to think about the works of more modern writers like Sylvia Plath and Oscar Wilde and how they compare to Shakespeare,” Hermione says, standing on the steps in front of the museum. “This will be the focus for your next paper. We’ll go over requirements and details for that next class.”

The students murmur and the same girl who’d spoken up that first day in class--Emma is her name--flashes Hermione a small smile.

She returns it, then, seeing a dark car pull up quickly to the curb, turns quickly back to the students.

“Now, you’re not middle-schoolers, so I’m not going to keep you all on a leash,” she says to chuckles. “Feel free to wander and take notes and we’ll all meet back here in an hour.”

The students begin to disperse, heading inside, but Hermione keeps standing there, tilting her head up to soak in the rare Oxford sunshine.

Footsteps and she turns as Malfoy slams the door of his car and marches up to her.

His jaw clenched, he says, “There are _five_ Sylvia Plath Museums in Oxfordshire, Granger. Five. _Fucking._ Museums.”

Hermione grins. “Yes, but only one offers a comprehensive showcase of her writing process. Something you would know if you were a, oh, what was that again? A ‘snippy, by-the-book English major.’”

Still grinning to herself, Hermione turns away and pushes open the door to the museum.

It’s cool and mostly empty in the lobby, and after showing her school I.D. she passes through the ticket barrier and into the first showroom.

A projection is showing slides of Sylvia's life and some of the students--including Emma--are watching it and taking notes.

“Hey.”

Hermione starts and turns to see Malfoy standing behind her. This close, she has to look up to meet his eyes and she’s a little thrown off by how much taller than her he is.

She raises a brow. “Yes?”

“Look, I don't like you,” Malfoy says bluntly after a moment, arms crossed. She’s pretty sure that Emma and a few other students are eavesdropping, because their eyes keep straying away from the video and towards them.

“How charming,” she snaps. “Thankfully, then sentiment is returned.”

"Good to know,” he sneers. “I don’t like you, and I hate that I have to teach this class with you, but in retrospect I do see that my comments on Monday evening were a little...harsh.”

“A little?”

His glare doesn't lessen. “I will not admit to more than that,” he says, voice clipped. “I was having a...bad night.”

It’s not an outright apology, but...

Hermione looks at Malfoy for a long moment, feeling slightly curious. He’s rude, arrogant, selfish and a complete arsehole and his only excuse for being all of the above as well as attempting to cast judgment on her entire lifestyle was that he was having a bad day.

She should be furious. Beyond furious.

Instead she feels...amused.

_Amused._

Hermione’s lips twitch a little. “Bad day, huh? Who should I send the flowers to?”

“Hilarious, Granger.”

She snorts. “I've been told I am. Now, security looks like it's starting to wonder why we're spending so much time standing by an exhibit depicting Sylvia’s extremely graphic childbirth, so we should go this way.”

She starts off to the side, not really expecting Malfoy to follow, but for some reason he does.

They enter another long exhibit hall--this one free of any of their students--and Hermione can feel the tension rise between them with every step.

Just when she can't take it anymore and is opening her mouth to say something--anything--to break the silence, a pair of girls walking by stop suddenly. One of them gasps.

"Draco?”

Malfoy’s head shoots up and Hermione’s torn between incredulity-- _Draco,_ really? _\--_ and surprise as a slightly panicked look crosses his face.

He quickly schools his features back to neutrality as the girls hurry over.

"It is you--I didn't think you'd be caught dead in a museum,” says a girl with short, dark hair and a button nose. Her clothes and that of her blonde friend are clearly designer, as is the way she carries herself--as though she’s doing the world a favor just by existing.

Malfoy's expression is blank. “School sanctioned event, Pansy," he drawls coldly. “Didn't have a choice.”

The other girl scoffs. “I’m sure you didn't. We all know Draco Malfoy is really just an academic at heart. Why else would he still be in school at 25? Willingly, too.” Her voice is teasing, but still Malfoy stiffens as though she's said something terrible. The blonde girl doesn't notice and turns her smile on Hermione. "But we're being rude. Who's your friend?”

“We're not friends,” Hermione and Malfoy say at the same time and exchange cold looks.

“We're not friends,” Hermione repeats, smiling awkwardly. “Just an acquaintance. I'm Hermione Granger. Malfoy and I--" she pauses and glances at him. “Well, we're TA’s for the same class. We’re here on a class trip.”

“Oh, cool," the blonde says. She looks about Ginny’s age. “I'm Daphne, and this is Pansy. We're old friends of Draco's. I didn't even know he was TA-ing this year." Her tone is scolding.

Malfoy's lip curls. "Well, you don't know everything about me, Daphne.”

Daphne doesn't seem insulted by that, and if Hermione didn't know any better she'd say that Malfoy seems almost...uncomfortable.

"What are you two doing here anyway?” he asks. "I know Pansy wouldn't be caught dead in a museum.”

"You're right, I wouldn't," Pansy returns, looking aloof and entirely ignoring Hermione. “But Daphne needed WiFi to make a call and this was the first place we saw.” She gives her surroundings a disdainful glance. "Now that she’s done...”

_Charming._

Daphne rolls her eyes, grabbing Pansy’s elbow. “Ignore her, she hasn't has her morning coffee yet," she says. "But we do actually have to go. It was lovely to meet you, Hermione."

“Likewise,” Hermione says, pasting a smile on her face. It's not entirely a lie--she has nothing against Daphne, even if Pansy is a bit snobbish. It's just the fact that they're friends with Malfoy.

Daphne smiles. "You too, Dray. Don’t be a stranger, okay? And even if you are, I'll see you at Theo's on Friday, so I can just corner you then. And good luck with med school. Bye, you guys."

Hermione watches the two girls walk away, then glances up at Malfoy. _Draco Malfoy._

She doesn't say anything and his face is blank, jaw clenched, then he glances down at his phone and says crisply, "I have to take this. See you, Granger. Maybe next time you'll stop dressing like a librarian."

He takes off, despite the fact that his home screen is clear of any calls or texts and that's the sloppiest insult she's heard him use since they met.

Ginny said undermining his power would get under his skin--and it has, not mention pissed him off. But running into those girls--his friends--rattled him more.

Hermione isn't sure whether she should be angry or intrigued--or which one bothers her more.

* * *

 

**3:42 P.M.**

“It's toast, Sirius, not a dying man--”

“Hey, I'm being _inventive--”_

The arguing that greets Hermione as she pushes open the door to The Marauder’s Map bookshop is a soothing normality in her day.

The sign says ‘closed’, so the shop is empty but for Harry, who is sitting at the counter, scrolling through his phone and listening with a faintly bemused expression to the bickering coming from the back of the store.

“Hey, Hermione,” he says, looking up. “You're just in time for the duke-off.”

Hermione eyes him as she sets down her bag. “Having fun?”

He yawns, a silk scarf wound around his neck and messes up his hair. “Tons.”

Hermione grins as someone lets out a snarl in the back, then stomping footsteps come their way.

“Sirius, I’m pretty sure that’s not a toaster--” Remus argues as he follows after the dark haired man, looking exasperated

Sirius Black, a scowl on his face, is clutching a defibrillator to his chest along with a slightly charred piece of toast. “We’re _losing_ him, dammit!” he yells, pressing the shockers against the sourdough bread.

Remus groans and there's a sizzling sound as the toast burns.

Sirius gingerly takes out the charred piece of bread and stares at it. “He’s in a butter place now."

Remus stares at his husband for a long moment, then shakes his head, snorting. “Okay, I'm not even mad, that was hilarious.”

Sirius beams and Harry groans. “Ugh, you guys are disgustingly mushy. Please, spare me."

The two men ignore their adopted son and Hermione, despite herself, feels her lips twitch.

Standing behind Sirius and Remus--who seem to have moved onto arguing about something entirely different involving the safe use of electronics--is Neville, who looks bemused and more than a little wary as he holds a box of books in his arms.

“Hey, Hermione,” he says. “How're you?”

“I'm good, Neville,” she says, smiling at him.

Harry doesn't look up from his phone. "They went back to get Neville's books for him and it turned into this. _This_ is why I no longer live at home.” The last part is directed at his guardians and Sirius frowns.

“Hey, I'm the fun one!” He finally notices Hermione standing there and beams. "Hermione!” He bounds over, dropping the defibrillator and the burnt toast unceremoniously on a display table and ruffles her hair. “Nice to see you, kid. Hey, you up for a round of strip poker? I married a stick-in-the-mud who doesn't even want to get naked in front of our child! Can you imagine?"

Hermione wriggles out of his embrace as Harry and Neville muffle their laughter.

“Thanks, Sirius," she says dryly. “But I just came to get the books I ordered."

Sirius sulks, crossing his arms. "Right, I forgot. Stick-in-the-mud 2.0 right here."

Hermione scowls at him.

“They're in the back,” Remus cuts in, giving Sirius a glare. "I’ll go get them for you, Hermione.” He points a finger at Harry. “And you--don't dawdle and do that homework I know is languishing in your bag.”

Harry groans. "That's bullshit. I'm in university--I'm a grown man, Remus, you can't tell me to do my homework.”

"Really?” Remus calls over his shoulder. "Then why can I still ground you? And mind your language.”

Hermione and Neville both muffle laughs at Harry's outraged expression.

Something dings and Sirius swears, looking at his phone. “Fuck. I'm on call. The ER never sleeps.” He shoved his cell back in his pocket and waved. “Bye, all. Don’t do anything I would do!"

He bounds off and Hermione watches him go with amusement, mixed with a little exasperation.

"For an ER doctor," Neville says, “he sure mishandles medical equipment a lot.” He looks doubtfully at the defibrillator.

This reminds Hermione of Malfoy and the fucking horrible--but successful--trip to the museum and she hastily changes the subject. "What are you doing here, Neville?”

“Boring books and to pick up me," Harry says, still looking despondent. “We're going to watch Ginny’s game. That is if I don't have a curfew.”

“In bed by 1 A.M.” comes, muffled, from the back room.

“Fuck you,” Harry mutters.

“I heard that, Harry James Potter.”

Neville grins, dark hair hanging in front of his eyes. "Then we'd better get going. We're meeting Ron there."

“La-di-da," Harry says moodily, slouching off the stool. “Bet he doesn't have a curfew."

"I wouldn't put it past Mrs. Weasley, honestly," Hermione says thoughtfully.

He just scowls.

“Oh, by the way," Neville says as Harry grabs his books and shoves them into his bag. "I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you, Hermione.”

"Ask away,” Hermione replies.

Neville looks vaguely embarrassed. “Well, I'm going to visit my Gran tomorrow and Trevor is going to be all alone in my flat--”

“For fuck's sake, mate, please don't ask Hermione to babysit your frog,” Harry says, voice muffled as he digs around under the register for something.

Neville shoots him a wounded look. “It's not babysitting!” he insists. “Trevor is very independent. He just needs to be fed.” He gives her a hopeful look. “Would you mind?”

Hermione swallows a groan. _Trevor._

Everyone knows about Trevor--the tree frog Neville adopted sophomore year for his Bio project and is now irrevocably attached to. She's been privy to the private life of Trevor far too many times for her tastes.

But it’s going to be another Thursday night lying on her couch, watching old reruns of Audrey Hepburn movies and inevitably rereading the email from Harvard...

"Sure," she says. "I'll feed Trevor for you.”

Neville beams. "Thanks a million, Hermione. I owe you."

Harry finishes putting his things away and the boys leave. Remus comes back out with her books soon after and she has a 4:30 class so she leaves with a promise to come over for dinner soon.

"It'll keep Sirius from driving me insane," is how Remus puts it as she leaves.

Hermione has mostly political science and law courses this year as well as a few history classes, and only one English class. It's a Deconstructing Shakespeare course and normally she wouldn't have even considered it, but there is something intriguing about tearing classic literature to shreds.

Professor Sinistra scowls at the class as Hermione takes her seat a little while later. “Good, you're all here," she says briskly with her usual no-nonsense expression. “Romeo and Juliet is the most overrated Shakespeare play of all time--something I hope I don't have to tell all of you. I've been a professor for ten years--I've seen every single spin on the classic there is to be found. So today I have set you all an impossible task: over the next three weeks, I want you to write a 10,000 word short story of your interpretation of the story. It can be a scene, or it can be the whole thing. Just be creative." Her sharp eyes narrow as the class murmurs. "And I swear to God, if any of your stories has anything to do with Plants vs. Zombies, again, I’ll strangle you.”

Laughter and Hermione muffles a snort. That had been an interesting week.

Someone raises their hand with a question. “Can I use a basis from my term paper last year?"

Sinistra's brow slants. “Which paper, Miss Caldwell?"

Rosemarie Caldwell hesitates. “Philosophy of the Ancient Greeks. Superimposed in a different galaxy."

The Profesor's nostrils flare. “I read that term paper, Miss Caldwell, and it was just poorly disguised, erotic Star Wars fanfiction. If you must use another author's world, you may, but for goodness sake be tasteful about it." She adds, "And before anyone asks, no, you may not give an in depth insight of the boink scene. Now get to work."

The girl next to Hermione taps her pencil against her desk. "A Fresh Poison is what I’m naming mine," she says and writes it on top of her paper in loopy cursive.

Her friend snorts. “I read ‘A Fresh Prince’.”

"Oh, I love that show,” James Darrow says dreamily.

Hermione disguises her laugh as a cough and puts all thoughts of poisonous tree frogs, annoying doctors and TAs and gets to work.

~

**Thursday, November 8th, 9:10 P.M.**

“Fucking winter,” Hermione huffs to herself, dashing as quickly as possible from her car to Neville’s front door. She fumbles for the key to the small flat, her breath coming out in white puffs. “I _hate_ it and if this door doesn’t—”

It swing opens and Hermione lets out a relieved sigh as she closes the door behind her.

She feels around for the light switch and blinks as the sudden flood of brightness pricks at her eyes. “Right, frog,” she says and looks around for Trevor’s terrarium.

It’s sitting in the corner and Hermione grabs the can of frog food, determinedly _not_ looking at what is inside it and pries open the tank lid. Trevor croaks and hops out onto the desk. A note in Neville’s handwriting is next to him.: _Please feed him three tablespoons and let him get some exercise. He can hop around the flat, but don’t leave the door open. He’s curious about the outside and he’ll never find his way back._

“Here you go, froggie,” she says, then a loud knock echoes.

Hermione frowns and, checking to make sure Trevor is happily exploring the floor, goes over to the door.

She opens it and Malfoy blinks at her.

“Granger?” He sounds confused.

Hermione blinks rapidly, then glares. “Malfoy? What the fuck are you doing here?”

He gathers himself. “I could ask you the same question,” he sneers. “Unless Daphne has gotten a new housemate in the last week and a half, _you_ are trespassing.”

Hermione’s jaw clenches so hard she’s afraid it will snap. “ _I_ am not doing anything,” she says. She slams a hand against the doorframe, next to the brass number. “ _15._ Perhaps you could be looking for 51?”

His jaw clenches, which she takes to mean she’s correct.

Feeling smug now, she goes on, “And since fate seems terrible determined to put me in as many horrible situations with you as possible, perhaps I should take the time now to tell you exactly what I think of you. Somehow I doubt a fistfight in front of our students will be particularly helpful.”

“Oh, what _you_ think of _me?”_ Malfoy’s sneer is now more of a snarl. “You just think you’re the best fucking thing in the world, don’t you, Granger—”

There’s a faint croak and Hermione’s eyes catch a little form hopping onto the steps right before her brain kicks in.

 _“Fuck!”_ She twists around frantically, cutting Malfoy off mid sentence. The flat is horrifically empty and she repeats the swear as she lunges past him. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ shit---”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Malfoy demands. “You—what are you doing?”

“Trevor!” Hermione all but shouts. “Trevor, I—you, _oh,_ shit! Trevor!” She pushes past Malfoy and runs down the stairs, but the frog seems to have disappeared.

Malfoy follows her, and somewhere in her mind she registers surprise, but she’s too lost in panic to notice much else.

“Trevor!” she calls out again, as if the frog will magically be summoned. Shit, shit, Neville is going to _kill_ her. She can already imagine his face falling—

And then Ginny will kill her and Harry might help because they have a rule. _Never_ hurt Neville.

“What the fuck is a Trevor?” Malfoy snarls. “And will you stop acting like a madwoman?”

 _“He!”_ Hermione shouts at him. “He’s a—he’s a---fuck I am so screwed.”

Just then there’s a little croak and she freezes. “Trevor?”

She hurries down the last of the steps and spots the little green frog sitting by the bushes. He croaks again.

“You--” Malfoy shuts his mouth as he spots the frog and Hermione takes a careful step forward. “Come on,” she whispers, well aware she looks insane. “Come on…”

Trevor cocks his head, then hops backwards a little.

Hermione lunges, darting down and biting back a grimace as her hands closed around the slimy little body. Trevor wriggles frantically and he slips out of her hands. Hermione stumbles forward as she tries to recapture him—

Malfoy tries to step out of the way but she bangs into him, finally managing to get a grip on Trevor. He makes a strangled noise and trips over a loose stone. Malfoy grabs wildly at nothing as he falls and then there is a sharp crack.

“Malfoy!” Hermione swears and kneels, keeping her grip on Trevor.

Malfoy pushes himself upright, a glare on his face. His blonde hair is smushed to one side. He looks ready to yell at her, but as he tries to get to his feet a sudden grimace crosses his face. “Fuck,” he hisses and collapses back on the ground. His face looks pale and it’s clear he’s seething as he looks at Hermione. “Congratu-fucking-lations, Granger,” he snarls. “Your evil plan has succeeded.” His face twists and he grabs onto the railing, pulling himself to his feet with difficulty. His ankle buckles and he has to grip onto the rail for support.

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione says, the stream of apologies falling on deaf ears. “Shit, I’m so sorry—is your ankle--”

“It’s fine,” he snaps. He tries to take a step forward, then sucks in a sharp breath and falls back.

“It’s not fine,” Hermione insists. “I think it might be broken. I—” she remembers Trevor in her hands and gives him her firmest look. Her guilt is overflowing in her gut. “Stay right there,” she says and turns.

Running back up the stairs, she deposits Trevor back in his terrarium and grabs her purse from the chair. She locks the door behind her and hurries back to Malfoy.

He’s still in the same spot, looking almost effortlessly disgusted and arrogant, but she can see the way he’s leaning on the railing for support and the pained wince behind his sneer.

“Come on,” she says when she comes up to him. She looks at him expectantly and holds out her hand.

He gives it a disgusted look. “I am not holding your fucking hand,” he snaps. “And come where?”

Hermione takes a sharp breath. This is her fault, she reminds herself. She’ll be patient if it kills her. “Your ankle is clearly broken or at least sprained,” she says tersely. “You need to go to the hospital.”

Malfoy face tightens and he takes a limping step backwards. His face creases with pain, but the venom in his voice is as strong as ever as he says, “No. Absolutely not.”

Hermione huffs, shivering in the winter air. She crosses her arms. “Malfoy, don’t be an arse. You can barely walk. My car is right over there, I can drive you--”

“I can drive myself,” he hisses.

“No way am I letting you get behind the wheel,” Hermione snaps, losing some of her composure. She gestures sharply. “You can barely walk!”

Malfoy gives her a harsh look and, haughtily, he takes a single step forward. Hermione is vaguely impressed to see that his face barely shifts at the movement and he manages not to fall over.

She raises an eyebrow. “Take another step,” she says.

He doesn’t move, his jaw clenched, and she nods to herself. “I’m taking you to the hospital,” she says, taking a step forward.

He jerks out of her reach and she can see the way he sways. He’s in no condition to get away from her or take himself anywhere and he seems to realize this, but he still gives her his most loathsome look. “Fine,” he snaps. “Fine, you can fucking drive me, Granger.” He sneers. “But I am _not_ holding your fucking hand.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she snaps back. “You don’t have to hold my hand. But unless you’d like to do a faceplant on the sidewalk you’re going to have to accept my help.”

“I’d take the sidewalk,” he spits, but reluctantly accepts her arm as he hobbles over towards the sidewalk.

He’s grimacing with every step and looks increasingly faint, but he still spares enough energy to display how disgusted he is that he has to touch her.

Thankfully, her car is only a few feet away and Hermione pulls open the passenger door.

Malfoy separates from her as quickly as possible and he collapses into the seat with a grimace. She can’t tell if its because he’s in her car or if its because of the pain.

Hermione gets into the drivers seat and glances at Malfoy as she buckles her seatbelt.

His skin is naturally pale, but he looks even pastier than normal and his eyes flicker closed for a second as he leans his head back.

Hermione starts the car and drives down the street in silence. She’s preparing to merge onto the motorway when Malfoy speaks up suddenly. “Go to Magdalen Street,” he says.

Hermione glances at him. “Magdalen? This isn’t time for a jaunt at Tesco’s,” she says. “No, Malfoy, you need to go to a doctor—”

“I am,” he snaps. “But I’m not going to the hospital.”

Hermione clenches her fingers on the steering wheel. “That makes no sense,” she snarls. “I’m driving, so I say that we--”

 _“Granger,”_ he hisses and he sounds deadly serious. Deadly furious. “If you take me to the hospital, I swear to God I will get out of this fucking car.”

They’re sitting at the light and it’s turning green. Someone honks behind them and Hermione clenches her teeth. Malfoy’s face is set and he looks furious and in pain and an asshole and she’s _such_ a pushover---

She lets out a silent curse as she executes a highly illegal U-turn and hurtles down Dervenshire Rd. “It’s _your_ fucking ankle,” she snaps, not looking at him. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care.”

Except she does and she curses the fact that she’s far too compassionate for her own good.

Malfoy doesn’t respond and they sit in tense silence until Hermione pulls onto the shopping thoroughfare. It’s only ten at night so its all lit up and filled with people.

Tersely, Malfoy directs her to an apartment building at the end of the street and Hermione parks. For a moment she considers letting him get out of the car and struggle to the door by himself, but God fucking dammit her parents raised her to be a courteous human and so she reluctantly gets out of the car and opens his door for him.

He’s scowling, predictably, and she glares back as he grips her arm and pulls himself to his feet with a grunt.

If she wasn’t so pissed, she’d be impressed. She’s had her share of broken ankles and they aren’t a joke.

Malfoy hobbles to the front door and presses the doorbell, a harsh scowl on his face.

Hermione waits by his side, her ire growing with every minute.

No one answers the door and Malfoy presses the bell again, then pounds on the door.

There’s the slap of feet coming down stairs from behind the door and someone cursing, then the door is wrenched open.

A tall, extremely gangly man glares at them, a pair of wire-framed spectacles perched crookedly on his nose. “What,” he says harshly, “the _fuck.”_ He spots Malfoy and glares harder. “Draco,” he snaps. “ _What?”_

Malfoy levels him a glare. “Theo,” he begins, then blanches and stumbles. Hermione grabs him and turns to the man. _Theo._

“He broke his ankle,” she announces. “And he’s being an idiot and refuses to go to the hospital and forced me to bring his stupid arse here. So now he’s your problem. Goodnight.”

She turns to go, but Theo swears and eyes Malfoy. “Might need your help,” he says. “I don’t think I can get the arse up the stairs. That much prattishness builds up. Muscle layers, you know.”

Despite herself, her lips quirk and Hermione sighs, but helps the man pull Malfoy up the stairs. He complains loudly the whole way and Hermione resists the urge to shove her elbow into his ribs.

Fuck, she needs a drink.

They’re in the doorway of a dimly lit living room and Theo shoves a bunch of pillows off the couch, then makes Malfoy sit down. “Sit,” he says, wagging his finger. “You---” he points at Hermione. “Make sure arsehole doesn’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

Malfoy glares at nothing and Hermione stands awkwardly by the door.

Thankfully, Theo is quick and he returns with an armful of bandages and salves. “Pants,” he says sharply to Malfoy, who obediently rolls up his pantleg.

Hermione sucks in a breath. The ankle is purple and swollen.

But Theo makes a vaguely happy sound. “It’s not broken,” he says. “You’ve got fucking good luck, Draco.” He prods at a toe and Malfoy jerks away. “What the fuck!” he hisses.

Theo scowls at him. “Wimp,” he shoots at him and uncovers a jar of salve. “Honestly, if you needed me to diagnose this, you shouldn’t even be in med school.”

Malfoy grunts. “I didn’t have my stuff with me,” he says shortly.

Theo snorts. “You never do.” He glances at Hermione and gives her a smirk. “Draco and I are in med school together,” he says. “Well, ‘together’ is a relative term I suppose. I’m a third year and he’s in first—hold _still_ , for fuck’s sake do you want to dislocate your knee as well?—but we’ve been mates forever.”

Malfoy glares at him. “I hate you,” he says.

Theo unrolls a thing of bandages with a practiced air. “Mutual, sir,” he says. “Now take the goddamn pain meds and fuck off.” He puts down Malfoy’s bandaged foot as the blonde swallows a handful of pills with a grimace.

“Good boy,” Theo says approvingly and stands. He stretches and yawns. “Well, this has officially ruined my evening.”

Malfoy has slumped back against the cushions, eyes drifting closed and he doesn’t respond.

Theo snorts and catches Hermione’s glance. “Gave him a sleeping pill with the pain meds,” he says. “Fucking insomniac. He’ll work himself into the ground one day. You know, I think I could go for a good cup of chamomile. You want one, love?”

Hermione glances at Malfoy, clearly asleep on the couch and hesitates, then says, “Uh, sure.”

Theo beams. “Excellent. By the way, I never got your name. Or introduced myself. Fuck, that is terribly rude. I’m Theodore Nott, but only my father calls me Theodore and he’s a bastard, so call me Theo.”

“I’m Hermione Granger,” she says, and smiles awkwardly at him. “Malfoy and I—well, we’re not really friends. We’re just TAs for the same class this semester and he happened to be walking by my friend’s place and he tripped and fell and, well, we ended up here.”

They’re in his kitchen now and Theo is pulling cups out of his cupboard—painted a cheerful yellow—and putting water to boil. He snorts. “Draco doesn’t have friends,” he tells her. “He has minions. And me,” he adds. “But I’m fucking special. Sugar?”

The teacups have little bears wearing bows on them and cartoon birds singing and Hermione feels like she’s having an out of body experience. She likes Theo, though. “Yes, please,” she says and takes a seat at the small table.

“I think I’ve heard of you,” he says as he sits down, adjusting his glasses. He’s wearing a red turtleneck with reindeer on it and Hermione almost feels the need to tell him it’s November. “Draco mentioned the TA for some English lit class.”

Hermione grimaces and takes a sip of her tea. “That’s me,” she says. “It probably wasn’t anything good, I imagine. We haven’t exactly gotten off on the right foot.”

Theo stirs his tea. “Maybe,” he allows, and shoots her a sharp grin. “But Draco never has anything good to say about anyone. And half of what comes out of his mouth is bullshit anyway.” He opens a tin of biscuits. “If you hate him, why didn’t you just leave him there? I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“I considered it,” Hermione admits, leaning back in her chair. “But I don’t hate him. I just…” she purses her lips.

“Strongly dislike him?” Theo suggests. “He makes your blood boil and want to pull all of your fucking hair out?”

Hermione’s lips twitch. “Exactly.”

“Welcome,” Theo says grandly, crumbs gathering on his upper lip, “to the world of knowing Draco Malfoy, where every moment is a torturous agony.” He stuffs another biscuit in his mouth and offers the tin to Hermione.

She accepts one and takes a bite as she thinks. “He gets under my skin,” she says. “I don’t know why. But it was technically my fault that he injured himself since I ran into him and I like to think I’m a better person than just leaving him there on the sidewalk.”

Theo nods. “And there is the eternal dilemma,” he says. “Morals. Pesky things. I usually don’t even bother. Who has the fucking time?” He yawns and runs a hand through his short dark hair.

He looks the same age as Malfoy, and there could be a dozen explanations for it, but Hermione wonders why exactly Malfoy is a first year medical student and Theo is a third.

Her head aches and she wants to let out a nice scream of frustration. She’s known Malfoy all of four days and already her life is filled with him and all of his random, posh friends who call him ‘Draco’ and have medical degrees and all seem to have this strange fondness for the arsehole.

“My birthday is tomorrow night,” Theo says suddenly. He gives her a sharp grin. “We’re meeting at the Three Broomsticks pub at nine. You seem cool—you wanna come?”

Hermione hesitates, considering the offer for a moment, but then she glances behind her, where she can see Malfoy sprawled out on the couch, snoring lightly. She shakes her head and is surprised to find herself feeling genuinely regretful as she says, “I don’t think Malfoy will want me there.”

Theo rolls his eyes. “Since when do you care what he thinks?” he says, like they’re old friends. “It’s _my_ fucking birthday party and I like you and it would be the best present to have Draco squirm. Fuck him.” He seems pleased with himself and nods gravely. “What do you say, Granger?”

_What the fuck is it with them and Granger?_

“Firstly,” Hermione begins primly, “don’t call me Granger ever again. Secondly…” she hesitates. She has a term paper due next week and she’s supposed to be looking at student loans for grad school. Her head pounds at the very thought of it.

She looks at Theo, still smirking and thinks about how pissed off Malfoy will be when she shows up at the party.

Certain she is going to regret this, she says, “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, Theodore.”

“Theo,” he corrects her charmingly, smirking even wider. “Only my--”

“—bastard of a father calls you that, right,” she finishes for him, shaking her head. She stands to leave. “It was nice to meet you,” she says because she is a polite human being and Theo just grins and gives her a little wave followed by a rude hand gesture.

Against her will, Hermione laughs.

_Fuck, am I regretting this._


	3. even if I know that I will end up in a mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, this is where it gets smutty kids. Official warning: IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO SEE SMUT, TURN BACK NOW.  
> A true, honest blanket apology because I am horrifically American and I have undoubtedly butchered anything and everything British and, yeah, sorry?  
> Also, a lot happens in this chapter and even more happens in the next because I am writer who does not know when to quit and just keeps expanding.  
> Also also, Theo is a treasure and I adore him, so that's why he's here.

**Friday, November 9 th, 8:47 PM**

Her dad calls as she’s preparing to leave her flat and it’s with no small amount of dread that Hermione presses accept.

“Hi, Dad,” she says into the receiver, her voice falsely cheery.

“Hermione,” her father says. “Is this a bad time?”

“No,” she lies as she juggles her purse and coat, trying to shove one arm in the sleeve and fix her hair at the same time. It was with a bit of a vindictive smugness that she’d chosen the red dress from Cho’s wedding last year, the skin tight one Ginny is so fond of. “It’s never a bad time for you.”

“How’s school?” her dad asks and she can hear the muffled sound of the television growing more distant as he moves away from the living room.

“Busy,” Hermione says vaguely. “I’ve got midterms coming up and I’m the TA for a freshman lit class this year.”

“Really?” he sounds surprised. “I thought you weren’t going to TA this year.”

“I wasn’t, but then—” Hermione presses the phone to her ear. “It’s a long story,” she says. “And believe me, I wish I wasn’t a TA this year. I’m only one half of the teacher team, and it sucks.”

“Bad partner?”

“You have no idea,” Hermione groans, thinking of the party she’s on her way to. She’s been waffling between going or not going the entire day and she’s gotten halfway through dialing Theo’s number (which he pressed on her the evening before) at least five times before picturing his grin and chickening out. And she’s still wrought with guilt about injuring Malfoy’s ankle. “He’s—ugh, God, I don’t even want to talk about it.”

“Well, if you ever do, I’m here,” her dad says. “You’re coming home next weekend, aren’t you? The 16th?”

“Of course,” Hermione says, feeling a spark of contentment at the thought. _Home,_ God. “All three days,” she promises. “You and me.”

She can hear his smile. “I’m looking forward to it, kiddo.”

“Me too,” Hermione says and checks the time on the wall. She winces. “Hey dad, I’m actually on my way out right now, I’m going to a party—can I call you back later?”

“Sure,” he says. “Have fun. You need to have more fun.”

Hermione pauses and groans. “You’ve been talking to Ginny again, haven’t you?”

“She’s a nice girl!” her dad says and she can picture the look on his face. Half stubborn, half sheepish. “A bit wild, but nice.”

Hermione leans her head against the wall. “So you talk?”

“We text,” he corrects. “And sometimes she drops by when Harry comes down. Which, just so you know, there is something fundamentally wrong when I see my daughter’s best friend and his girlfriend more often than my own daughter.”

“Hey, you basically adopted Harry when we were ten,” Hermione protests. “And you’ve always loved him more! That boy is far too loveable for is own good. He’s twenty two and he’s got like five different dads. Besides, I am _coming home_ this weekend. Promise. Now I really have to go.”

“Harry subject not over,” her dad says. “We will continue this later. Now have fun and I love you.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Love you too,” she says. “I’ll let Harry know he’s such a popular topic in our family. Bye.”

The line goes dead and Hermione glances in the mirror, checking that her hair is still in the curls she’d wrangled out of the bushy mess earlier. They are roughly the same and since she’s already hair-sprayed and blow-dried herself to high heavens, that’s probably as good as it’s going to get.

She pulls her black coat closed over her red dress, slips on her heels and, after a moment of hesitation, goes out the door.

Hermione takes a cabbie so she won’t turn around halfway there and when the driver drops her off near the edge of campus, right by the bustling pub that most of the town frequents, she stands on the pavement for a few minutes, freezing her arse off and being a coward.

The pub is filled with people coming in and out, and the windows are lit up with light and music.

A couple exits and the swinging door lets her get a glimpse of the equally busy interior.

Fuck it, she’s _so_ not made for this kind of thing.

Hermione swallows, clutching her purse tightly and takes all of one step forward.

_Great. Fucking fantastic. Here lies Hermione Granger, bloody coward._

Gritting her teeth, she comes up to the door and uses the window the check that her lipstick hasn’t migrated to her teeth, then fixes her hair. She’s stalling and she knows it. Reminding herself that she has every right to be at this party and whoever chooses to give her scathing looks and taunting comments is in the wrong, Hermione pushes open the door and steps into the pub.

The Three Broomsticks is packed, and a truly excessive number of streamers are dangling from the ceiling, which she takes to mean Theo had a hand in the decorating. Instantly Hermione feels uncomfortable and she’s reminded why she avoids events like these as much as possible.

Someone bumps into her and Hermione hurriedly steps away from the door, making her way towards the bar, where she can see a pile of gifts.

Despite Theo’s comments that pissing off Malfoy was the greatest present she could bring, she’d still brought him a bottle of Scotch that’s been gathering dust in her kitchen since Sirius gave it to her three years ago. It’s some sort of special brand, made from something or other that is supposed to be quirky and weird and get you drunk very fast. She thinks Theo, from what she knows of him, will appreciate it.

She orders a glass of wine from the bartender and loiters by the counter.

“Hermione?” A familiar airy voice speaks over her shoulder and Hermione twists around, her eyes widening. “Luna?”

Luna Lovegood, wearing a blindingly yellow sundress and no tights, smiles dreamily at her. “You’re here, wonderful!” she says. “I didn’t realize you knew Theodore.”

Hermione’s brows flick up. “You know Theo?” _And call him Theodore?_

Luna twirls her hair around her finger and gazes into the air. “Oh, yes,” she says. “Well, those streamers are absolutely horrible. The positioning will trap the Wrackspurts.” She looks genuinely upset. “Help me up,” she says and clambers onto a barstool.

Hermione abandons her wineglass to hold Luna steady, trying not to look too bemused. Luna is quite odd, no matter which way you look at her, but she’s Ginny’s best friend and Hermione quite likes her despite her quirks.

Luna unhooks a streamer from the ceiling and it falls around her in a cloud of crepe paper, and the blonde shakes it out firmly. “Be free,” she announces to nothing, then steps down.

“Granger!” Theo appears at her side so suddenly Hermione jumps, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His hideously lime green button up is unbuttoned halfway down his chest and he’s holding a whole bottle of tequila in his hand. He grins at her. “You came. Fucking fabulous. Draco’s around here somewhere—fuck, I want to see his face when he sees you. _Please_ tell me you’re wearing something sheer under that coat.”

Hermione clutches her coat tighter around her. “I most certainly am _not,”_ she snaps. But she’s not very offended because she’s fairly certain that Theo isn’t interested in her, and is proven correct when Luna says dreamily, “Hello, Theodore,” and Theo perks up like a wilting cabbage dunked in water.

“Luna,” he beams. “Darling, you’re here. And I see you tore down my decorations.”

“They were trapping the Wrackspurts,” Luna says gravely.

Theo’s eyes widen. “Were they?” He looks up at the ceiling, then turns his head and calls out to a man standing by the bar. “Blaise, tear down all the fucking decorations!”

‘Blaise’ makes a face at him. “Do it yourself, arsehole!” he shouts back over the pounding music.

Theo rolls his eyes. “Minions,” he tuts. “So fucking unreliable.” But his smirk is back on Luna and he practically wriggles his fingers in excitement as he sidles closer.

“Oh,” Luna says. “I think I see a Nargle over there!” She jumps to her feet and beams at Theo. “Come along, Theodore,” she says.

“Absolutely,” Theo says, and waves at Hermione. “See you, Granger. If you see Draco, give him hell for me.”

Hermione watches them go, feeling slightly bemused, then looks back up at the torn streamers fluttering on the ceiling.

She slips out of her coat, laying it on top of the barstool next to her and leans against the bar, surveying the crowd. Besides Luna, she doesn’t see anyone she recognizes, though she does spot Theo and Luna crouching strangely on the floor.

Hermione’s about to take a sip of wine when someone steps in front of her.

Hermione blinks, then schools her face into cool disdain as Malfoy glares at her.

“What,” he growls though clenched teeth, “the fuck are you doing here?”

Hermione raises an eyebrow at him. “Theo invited me,” she says. “You know, I’d think he would have told you, considering you’re such good mates and all.”

Malfoy’s jaw clenches visibly and he opens his mouth to retort but then some of the fire in his eyes dies and he glances up and down her very quickly. His face becomes tense and he takes a step back.

Hermione’s cheeks are warm and she resists the urge to cross her arms. The red dress is off-the shoulder and even though it doesn’t reveal very much skin, it doesn’t leave anything to the imagination either.

Fuck, she shouldn’t have come.

“Look,” Hermione begins, but then there’s a stifled gasp behind her and someone says, “Hermione? Hermione _Granger?”_

She stifles a groan as she turns—what is it with all of these _people—_ then blinks, dumfounded.

“Astoria?” she says to the pretty dark haired girl at the same time Malfoy says, “You _know_ her?” He sounds horrified.

Astoria Greengrass, wearing a blue cocktail dress, beams at Hermione. “Of course!” she says. “God, it’s been a while, I don’t know if you remember me--”

“How could I forget,” Hermione says, trying to collect herself. Malfoy still seems to be in shock. “We survived the harrowing journey of Hernley v. Grunnings together, after all.”

Astoria laughs. “Fuck, those case studies were a _nightmare.”_ She seems to notice Malfoy again. “Oh, hello Draco,” she says, her smile softening. “I didn’t know you knew Hermione.”

Malfoy’s face is stiff. “I was unaware that you had been introduced,” he says equally stiffly.

“We had law classes together last year,” Astoria says, turning to Hermione with a grin. “I haven’t seen you around campus lately. Been busy?”

“Uh, yes,” Hermione says. “Wait, how do you--?”

“Oh, Draco and I are old friends,” Astoria says casually. “We grew up together.”

Hermione crosses her arms and smiles thinly. “Of course you did,” she says, not even surprised, because of _course_ in five days her entire fucking world would come to revolve around Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy is looking especially sour now, and he crosses his arms. “I didn’t know you were back in town,” he says loudly and then Hermione remembers that Astoria hadn’t come back for her last year, choosing to graduate early.

Astoria shrugs. “I’m visiting,” she says with a little laugh. “Pansy was coming up for a few weeks and I missed her—she’s a fucking magician, do you know? Makes you miss her even when she’s a bitch all the time—and it’s Theo’s birthday, so I’m here until Monday.”

Malfoy’s face gets even tighter. “I’m…glad,” he says, and there’s something profoundly awkward between them and Hermione almost wants to step away and give them privacy.

But then Astoria, not losing her blinding smile, turns back to Hermione. She mentally curses Astoria for being so nice.

“By the way, I wanted to say congratulations,” she says. “Harvard Law School---that’s amazing. You’re so much braver than I am.” She sighs. “God, I couldn’t even imagine moving to the United States for four whole years. Not to mention possibly the rest of your life! But I know you’ll make an amazing lawyer.”

Hermione stiffens noticeably, but she forces herself to keep smiling as she says, “Thank…you. It is.”

Both of them can clearly hear the reluctance in her words and Malfoy actually glances at her, his face still hostile, but also curious, but Astoria, bless her, is too polite to say anything. She just smiles again and reaches out and squeezes Hermione’s hand. “We should catch up,” she says. “If not this weekend, then the next time I’m in town. Gotta catch you while you’re still on this continent,” she jokes.

Hermione can’t even begin to compose herself enough to answer that, but thankfully someone else slips up to their little circle, slinging her arm around Astoria.

It’s the dark haired girl from the Sylvia Plath Museum—the snobbish one. She scowls at Hermione and, to her surprise, Malfoy too, then presses a kiss to Astoria’s bare shoulder, draping her limbs around her waist. She almost looks territorial.

Territorial, tipsy, and jealous.

Not a good combination.

“Hello, love,” Astoria says, petting the woman’s hair absently. “Hermione, this is my girlfriend, Pansy Parkinson.”

“We’ve met,” Pansy says shortly, eyeing Hermione disdainfully.

Hermione is sick of being polite, so she just glowers back.

“Oh,” Astoria says, glancing between the four of them. A frown wrinkles her brow. “That’s…good.” She pastes another smile on her face. “Well, I’ll see you around Hermione. Draco—do you want to come find Daphne?”

Malfoy shakes his head to Hermione’s surprise. His face is blank. “I have to talk to Granger,” he says shortly, and she doubts its anything but an excuse since the only thing they ever trade is insults.

Pansy’s eyes widen for a brief moment, and she glances between them, then rolls her eyes and untangles herself slightly from Astoria. “Whatever,” she drawls, but Hermione can see a hint of relief in her eyes. “Come on, Stori.”

Astoria hesitates for a moment, and she pauses to put her hand on Malfoy’s shoulder. He flinches minutely.

“Call me,” she says quietly. “We should—I want---” she settled for, “I miss talking to you.”

Malfoy nods tightly. “Right,” he says shortly. “It’s—good. I’ve got your number.”

Astoria nods, and, with a last sad, lingering glance at him and a weak smile for Hermione, she leaves with Pansy.

Hermione holds herself tense, bracing for whatever storm Malfoy is about to unleash. He looks furious, ready to blow, but to her surprise he just glances away from her and mutters, “I’m finding Theo,” and he leaves as well.

Hermione watches him limp away—his foot is wrapped in a thick bandage—a strange feeling in her chest.

“Shit, you look like you just weathered a tornado,” Theo says, coming around her. He leans against the counter, looking slightly wobbly. He peers at her. “You seen Draco?”

Hermione nods, trying to rid herself of these strange emotions and to erase Astoria’s comments about Harvard from her mind. “Yeah—he just went looking for you, actually. I think he headed that way.” She points but Theo just rolls his eyes.

“I’ll find him later,” he says with an expressive wave. “I want to chat it up with you. What’s with the PTSD look, love?”

“I don’t have a PTSD look,” Hermione protests futilely, then sighs at his raised brow and slumps back against the bar, wishing she had a drink.

As though reading her mind, Theo raises a hand and orders a round of shots from the barkeep, then looks at her with a expectant gaze. “Spill the shit,” he says.

“Astoria Greengrass and Pansy…Parkinson were over here,” she says. “I know Astoria---well, actually I sort of know Pansy too—but I had a few classes with Astoria last year. I didn’t know she knew Malfoy though.”

Theo raises both brows this time. “Draco was here?” he says. “With them?”

Hermione nods.

“Agh,” Theo sighs. “Fuck, I probably should find him. Make sure he doesn’t drown himself in some sort of depressed Romeo and Juliet shit. I can’t _stand_ Shakespeare. Fucking pretentious.”

“Why?” Hermione presses, well aware she’s pushing a line she has no right to even touch, but Theo is drunk and strangely fond of her and seems like the most likely to tell her anything. Fuck it, after all these days of confusion and hatred, she wants some _answers._ “How do they know each other?”

“Grew up together,” Theo says carelessly, tossing back a shot. “But Draco moved away in secondary school—didn’t see each other until they turned up at the same uni. Parents were fucking delighted of course. They were engaged, you know.”

Hermione’s brow creases. “Their parents?”

Theo snorts. “Shit, I’d pay to see _that_ fuckstorm. No, Stori and Draco. Broke it off about a year ago.”

There’s a strange feeling in her stomach, half roiling nausea, half something she can’t name. “They were engaged?” She glances around, as though she’ll see them entwined in a corner. “Why---why did they break it off?”

Taking her shot—Hermione has no interest in alcohol anymore—Theo downs it before answering. “Two words, love,” he says cheerily, twiddling a finger in the air. “P.S.”

“Pansy Parkinson?”

“No, pansexual,” Theo says. “Fuck, I must be drunker than I thought if my abbreviations aren’t making sense. Though according to my bastard of a father, they never make sense. Hmm. Anyway, she ran off with the nanny, so to speak.” He pauses. “Or the British socialite heiress to an incredible fortune.”

Hermione blinks rapidly, trying to keep up. “She ran off with Pansy. And Malfoy’s…still in love with her?”

“Who fucking knows?” Theo snorts, leaning away. “I don’t have time for that bullshit. Maybe he never loved her---it was arranged, anyway. Parental units were pleased as punch with their little match. But when Draco found out Stori wasn’t happy with him, he broke off the engagement.” He snorts again. “Got all but fucking disowned for it though didn’t he—” he shuts his mouth, as though aware that he’s said far too much. “Ah, forget I said that. Fuck me, I _am_ drunk. Can’t even remember the last time that happened.” He blinks rapidly. “Quick, do my pupils look dilated to you?”

Hermione’s head is spinning and she gives him a cursory glance. “No—no, you’re fine.”

Theo shrugs and steals the last of the shots before ambling away.

Hermione stands alone by the bar, the whirl of the crowd around her. She can’t even process what Theo told her. But what can’t she process about it? That Malfoy was engaged? That he broke it off? That his fiancée was Hermione’s study partner for a whole semester and is now living in supposed exile with her rich nanny?

Hermione digs her nails into her palms, wishing that Harry were here with her. Or Ron or Ginny or even Neville. Or that Luna will show up and take her on some weird wacky treasure hunt.

None of those things happen, but instead she sees Malfoy approaching her again, his hands in his pockets, his face dark.

He doesn’t speak as he leans against the bar next to her and she sees that his eyes are on Astoria and Pansy, who are sitting at a corner booth with Daphne and some other people. Astoria’s leaning against Pansy and laughing at something she said.

Malfoy’s eyes are dark, the grey swallowed by the shadows of the dimly lit room.

Hermione thinks of the letter hidden in her nightstand drawer, the neat black print boring into her mind. _Dear Miss Granger, Due to your excellent LSAT scores and academic record we are delighted to accept you early decision to Harvard Law School…_

She turns to Malfoy and he looks over to meet her eyes.

“A round of shots,” she says to the bartender without looking away from Malfoy. His eyes spark. There’s still anger and ire there, but when the shots are poured, he reaches out and takes one.

Hermione downs hers quickly, trying not to wince at the burn, but she manages not to cough.

Malfoy is still glancing over at Astoria and when he sees her looking he quickly looks away, but not before she sees the flash of loathing in his eyes. Not at her, but at himself.

Hermione’s surprised to feel a flash of sympathy for him and she says, “Since I did technically injure you yesterday and it’s supposed to be a party…” The alcohol makes her brave and so she lifts her chin, meeting his gaze. “Truce?” she says.

Malfoy’s brow raises. “And what exactly would we do in this truce?” he says lowly.

Hermione swallows and taps on the counter. “Let’s get drunk,” she says.

Malfoy stares at her for a long moment, then he actually lets out a bark of laughter—bitter and rough, but still a laugh—and says. “This is the most fucking pathetic thing I’ve ever done, but fine.”

“Insult,” Hermione accuses, downing another shot. The room is turning pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. “First rule—no insults.”

Malfoy makes a face and downs a shot as well. “No sarcasm then either,” he snaps back. “You and…you and your fucking tongue.” There’s a heat under his words that she doesn’t understand.

“Double insult,” Hermione says loudly. Too loudly. She’s not drunk yet, but she’s well on her way. She grabs another shot though, because she can still think. “I don’t think you’ll last ten minutes at this game, Malfoy.”

He glares. “Is that right, Granger?”

She shakes her head. The room is definitely blurry now and Malfoy’s starting to look like he’s got a double. “Nope, _Draco._ ”

He leans against the bar, grabbing another shot and pushing one at her. His eyes are alight with the venom she’s familiar with. “We’ll see about that, _Hermione,”_ he says mockingly. “I bet you’re a total lightweight. I’ll outdrink you far before I insult you.”

“That was an insult,” Hermione argues, but things are funny when she’s drunk so it comes out all breathy and giggly and she _hates herself._

“Start drinking and we’ll see,” Malfoy counters.

Hermione smirks back at him. “You’re on,” she says.

Time blurs as the shots disappear as quickly as they’d come and they move onto tequila. Malfoy forces her to choke down some disgustingly fancy cocktail and in retaliation she makes him drink a beer. She hates beer and she has to drink the rest of it when he’s done, but it’s worth it to see his face screw up like he just ate a lemon.

“What the fuck,” he splutters. “That is---fucking hell, people actually _drink_ this shit?”

Hermione’s laughing and clutching onto the end of the bar for support, but she’s been laughing all evening. Because he’s actually funny, even though he is an arse. Hermione is just pathetic and drunk enough not to care at the moment. “I have no idea,” she gasps out. “But, your face--”

She collapses into laughter again and Malfoy scowls.

“Fuck you,” he snarls, shoving the beer away from him. “You—you, you---” he flounders for a second, looking incredibly drunk, then lets out a shout. “English major! By-the-book English major!” He wags his finger, almost falls over, and glares at her, but his hair is mushed to the side.

Hermione snorts. “English major? That’s the best you can come up with? At least _I_ am educated.”

“I’m a fucking doctor,” Malfoy snaps.

“And _I_ am a _lawyer.”_ She elongates the word and takes a gulp of whatever drink is in her hand. Something fruity. “I’ll take your scrawny arse to courtroom. Courtroom? Curtain.” She shakes her head and slaps the table. “Court! I will take you to _court,”_ she shouts.

“I’ve got a lawyer,” Malfoy shoots back. “Best fucking one that money can buy.”

“Oh, yeah, and _that_ ,” Hermione says loudly, moving closer. “You’re so fucking pretentious, do you know that? Like, we get it, you’re rich and arsehole, we don’t need it shoved in our fucking faces all the goddamn time.” She’s almost nose to nose with him, standing on her tiptoes even in her heels, which is probably a terrible idea, but it seems fine at the moment.

All she can see is his eyes, glazed and irritated.

The room is spinning in the background and his breath is on her face. It smells like alcohol. She’s too drunk to care.

Her heart is pounding in her chest, in her ears, in every vein of her body. It’s all she can hear.

She’s drunk.

Hermione laughs, right in his face. “I hate you,” she tells him and then she’s kissing him.

It only lasts a second, but it paralyzes her. Her lips are on his, and she can feel his breath and somehow she’s pressed closer to him and they’re _kissing._

Her head spins and she jolts, falling back onto her feet with a snap. She stumbles and grabs onto the bar, a sudden whirl of noise settling in.

Her heart is pounding furiously and she lets out a delayed gasp, still clutching the fabric of Malfoy’s shirtsleeve.

He’s staring at her, and his eyes look almost silver in the dim light. His lips are parted and he swallows, looking at her hand and her mouth and…

Malfoy pulls away, his mask sliding back into place. His face hardens. “They’re about to cut the cake, Granger,” he says, his words still slurred. “Don’t want to be—fucking late.” He almost stumbles as he turns away and Hermione stands there, frozen.

Her lips tingle.

“No,” she whispers harshly to herself. She digs her nails into her palms as painfully as she can. “No, no, _no._ I am drunk, I am so so _so_ drunk. This is not—” she’s still babbling to herself as she unsteadily makes her way over to one of the tables, where they are indeed cutting the cake, trying not to look like she’s having an emotional breakdown.

_No. NO. Will not think about it._

The cake is cut and Theo loudly sings happy birthday extremely off key, even after everyone’s eaten, then the next time Hermione turns around, he’s making out with Luna against a barstool and somehow he’s lost his lime green shirt. She can’t say she misses it.

Hermione, unfortunately sober—unexpected snogs seem to shock the drunk right out of her—wanders over and coughs awkwardly. “Excuse me,” she says. “I was just---I came in a cabbie, but it’s midnight and traffic is going to be terrible so I won’t be able to get one for at least an hour or two. Luna, would you mind giving me a ride home?”

Luna blinks at her. “I walked here,” she says. “And I’m going home with Theodore.”

Theo grins at her. “She’s going home with me,” he repeats smugly.

Hermione stares. “Well, then what should I do?”

Theo blinks, then beams and starts waving madly. “Draco! Oy, I need you to give Granger a ride.”

Hermione’s heart stutters---she yells at herself—then stutters again as Malfoy comes into view. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, revealing muscled forearms and even though he’s walking pretty straight (as straight as he can in a bandage) she can see from the way he sways and the glazed look in his eyes that he’s still drunk. In fact maybe even drunker than when they parted ways.

“Absolutely not,” Hermione says loudly. “He’s completely drunk and I am too young to die.” _And there’s no way I’m getting in a car with him._ “I’ll just wait here—”

“No way,” Theo objects and Luna nods seriously. Hermione tries not to pay attention to where her hand is. It’s a miracle Theo can even talk. “You can’t just wait here for two hours.”

Malfoy is mutinously silent, but his glare is directed in her general direction. Not directly at her.

Hermione feels uneasy, out-of-her-skin uncomfortable. She glances around the empty bar. “But he’s drunk,” she protests.

Theo shrugs. “So you drive the fucking car. By the time you get to your place he’ll be sober enough to drive himself. It doesn’t matter.”

“Absolutely fucking _not,”_ Malfoy snarls, his words slurred. He wobbles a bit. “I’m not having _her--_ ”

“Fine,” Hermione interrupts. Her blood is boiling. “Give me the keys.”

Malfoy stares at her, meeting her gaze for the first time.

Her skin burns, but she holds his gaze. “Give me the fucking keys,” she says. “Now.”

He glares, but after a long moments drops the keys into her palm.

Hermione closes her fingers around them and pulls away. Her heart is pounding. “Come on,” she says, before she loses her nerve. Theo and Luna have lost all interest in them and she doesn’t bother saying goodbye as she turns and exits the pub.

It’s midnight on a Friday night, so the streets are still crawling with people and she turns to Malfoy on the freezing pavement. “Where’s your car?”

He shivers, his shoulders hunched and frowns. “That—way,” he says, stumbling over his words. He sways and points. “Something.”

Hermione clenches the car keys tighter and turns sharply without a word, heading along the pavement. There are only a few cars parked and she quickly rules out the pickup truck and a beat up Ford. The shiny Aston Martin parked perfectly at the end screams Malfoy and she heads for that one.

The keys unlock it with no problem and Hermione slides into the driver’s seat, feeling a strange sensation as she looks around the flawless leather interior. It’s not the fanciest car she’s been in—Sirius took her, Harry and Ron to some sort of gala event in London one time when they were fifteen and they rode in a limousine—but the impeccably clean floors, the books neatly stored in the glove compartment and a tin of breath mints…it all feels impossibly intimate.

Hermione swallows.

“Are you ever going to drive?” Malfoy asks, his head lolling back against the passenger seat. He seems to have progressed to the stage of drunk where he simply didn’t care about anything anymore.

 _No. I’m going to sit right here, eternally in this awkward silence, because if I drive it will get worse and I cannot take worse._ Cannot _take worse. Shit shit shit fuck._

Aloud, she says, “Just trying to adjust to the sheer level of snobbery in this car.”

He snorts, then settles into silence as Hermione carefully backs up into the road and drives down the street.

She’s a cautious driver in the best of situations, but she’s especially careful right now, because there’s a lot of people on the streets and because she doesn’t think she’ll ever live it down if she crashes Malfoy’s car.

They remain in a tense silence—well, it’s tense on her side. She thinks Malfoy simply doesn’t care anymore—as they move through the streets towards her flat, but the traffic gets thicker the further they move into the center of the town.

Hermione turns the corner and sees the stoplight turn red ahead of them. A dozen cars idle in front of them and she huffs in irritation.

“I hate traffic,” she mutters, and slumps back against the admittedly comfortable seat.

Malfoy is silent and they sit there for a while.

“Why don’t you talk about Harvard?” Malfoy says suddenly.

Hermione whips her head to look at him. “You—what? I don’t not talk about---” She recovers herself. “That’s none of your business,” she snaps, turning back to the wheel. Her jittery fingers tap on the wheel and she forces them to still.

Malfoy shifts in his seat, his posture utterly relaxed. “Sounds like you don’t talk about it,” he says.

Hermione clenches her jaw. She wills the stoplight to turn green, but it stubbornly stays red. “You’re drunk,” she says, because she has to say something.

He snorts and says, “‘Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.’”

Hermione stills, then glances over at him. “Oscar Wilde,” she says needlessly. “I doubt he was referring to drinking when he said that though.”

Malfoy’s eyes are closed. “Drinking is just another mask,” he says, voice low. “And you’re avoiding the subject.”

Hermione huffs. “You’re a pushy drunk.”

“Constantly,” he replies. “I’m—I don’t know. Why don’t you talk about Harvard?”

“Why don’t you talk about Astoria?” Hermione counters.

He stills, then opens his eyes. The look in them isn’t friendly, but Hermione meets it with her own gaze.

“‘So you can dish it out but you can’t take it,’” she says. “Quote. Me. Right now. You’re an arse.”

“Undoubtedly,” he says, his lips twisting. He leans back again and it sounds like he’s talking to no one. “A disowned arse.”

Hermione is silent, but she turns her head to look at him. His eyes are open and they reflect the city lights.

She’s reminded of earlier, when she was so close to him that she could see herself reflected in his eyes, when they were all she could see.

_No, I can’t…_

Without meaning to, she’s begun to lean towards him.

The stoplight turns from red to green.

Malfoy’s leaning in too, and his hand is steady as it comes to rest on her cheek. His fingers brush her skin and he moves a strand of hair off her face.

“Words are only painted fire,” he whispers. “A look is the fire itself.”

 _Mark Twain,_ she thinks distantly, then she loses the ability to think at all.

Hermione can’t breathe, can’t feel anything outside the slow burn sliding through her from the inside out. His hand slips away.

A car honks loudly behind them and Hermione leans away quickly, her heart in her throat.

She grips the wheel to stop the shaking in her hands and hurriedly presses on the gas.

They move forward and Hermione doesn’t say anything at all for the remaining few minutes until she pulls up in front of her building. She doesn’t shut off the car and she mutters a hurried goodbye to Malfoy before getting out.

She doesn’t hear his reply—if he says anything at all, he’s still a little drunk—and Hermione doesn’t look back as she enters the lobby and climbs the stairs to her flat.

When Hermione enters the dark flat, she doesn’t turn the lights on and stands in her living room. She presses a hand to her mouth. Her fingers are steady. Even though she’s long sober, she still feels drunk and slightly out of control.

Her head pounds and she steps out of her heels and collapses on her bed, rubbing a hand over her face.

_Fuck._

Hermione stares at her ceiling until her gaze blurs and her eyes slip closed, dozing off.

_She’s lying on her bed, the touch of silk cool on her skin. Hermione rolls over, the sheet slipping off her and her mouth curves into a smile as a hand runs over her hip._

_“You’re cold,” she complains, and someone chuckles quietly. A head appears above hers, blonde hair rumpled and collar undone. Grey eyes meet hers and he purrs, “Well, allow you to warm me up.”_

_He kisses her, long and drawn out and she digs her hand into his hair, gasping as he draws away and his hand slides further down, parting her thighs._

_He feels the slickness and presses open-mouthed kisses to her jaw. Hermione sucks in a breath, biting back a moan as he slides a finger inside her. He chuckles again, darker this time, and his other hand comes up and brushes along the underside of her breast._

_Hermione moans as he adds a second finger, pumping slowly and she arches her back._

_“Draco,” she gasps, fire coiling low in her belly._

_“Granger,” he whispers, kissing her mouth softly then removing his fingers from her. She almost whines and he brings his hand to his mouth, sucking his fingers slowly, keeping eye contact with her. She watches him, her entire body flushed as he kisses his way down her chest, between her breasts and across her stomach._

_He settles between her thighs, kissing the sensitive skin on either side of the apex, then looks up and meets her eyes as he puts his mouth on her._

_She moans as his tongue strokes her, digging her fingers into his scalp. She tugs on his hair and he groans, low and wanting and the sound goes straight to her core._

_Hermione pants and shifts her leg, feeling that he’s hard beneath those cashmere slacks._

_Fuck, those cashmere slacks._

_He hits a spot that makes her groan, but she gasps out, “Stop, I want you--”_

_She reaches for him, her breathing ragged, and he comes easily, one arm curving around her back to support her as he kisses her. She can taste herself on his tongue,_

_She unbuckles his belt and he groans as her hand slips inside—_

Hermione jerks awake, panting.

Her eyes search the dark room wildly and she gasps, her entire body burning. She can still feel his hands, sliding down her skin, his breath on her mouth, moaning her name—

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

“No,” she says loudly, her voice ragged. “No, I did _not_ just have a sex dream about--”

But she _did._

Hermione lies there, her skin flushed and she digs her fingers into her hair, trying to keep still.

She’s still wet, she realizes with distant horror. Horror and something else.

Her breath is shaky as she inches her hand down her body and she sucks in a breath as she brushes against her clit.

_Fuck, she’s wet._

The burning won’t go away and Hermione feels the frustration building in her and she clenches her jaw, biting back the sounds that try to escape her lips as she slides her hand into her underwear and touches herself.

She does it furiously, still picturing Malfoy moving above her, his mouth on her skin, moans and skin and—

She’s already close and it’s over too quickly and as she comes down from her orgasm, still panting heavily, she clenches her fingers into the pillowcase, heart thundering in her chest.

She’s still got that burning feeling, doesn’t feel satisfied.

Hermione remembers his gaze in the car, heavy and dark, the only thing in the world the space between them.

She rolls over and groans into her pillow. Her voice is muffled. “Fuck it, I am so screwed.”

* * *

 

**Sunday, November 11 th, 7:42 PM**

“Thank God, you’re here. Ginny and Ron are about to get into it over the cheese platter.”

Hermione blinks at Harry, standing in the open doorway of the flat above the Marauder’s Map bookshop. “Please tell me it isn’t about Ginny’s dating life again,” Hermione says with a groan, taking off her coat and stepping inside. “Even though she’s been with you for over two years now, he still seems to think she’s dating thirty different guys.”

Harry makes a face. As usual, he’s wearing about sixteen different layers of brightly colored scarves on top of a handknitted sweater with a stag on it. “Ginny has dated thirty different guys before,” Harry says. “But no. Worse. It’s about _Ron’s_ dating life.”

Hermione groans. Ron had made a badly thought out pass at Hermione their freshman year of college and they’d even gone on a date—but it had been mutually decided that it wasn’t good for either of them. They’re still best friends, but that doesn’t mean that hearing about his dating life isn’t the worst possible subject she can think of. Especially when hers is so dismal.

Thinking about dating makes her think about Malfoy, which she has been steadfastly _not_ doing the whole weekend and she’s not about to start now, so she pastes a smile on her face and says, “Well, good for us, I brought wine.”

“I love you,” Harry says and gives her a one-armed squeeze. “Truly, adore you, Hermione. Now come on.”

They enter the sitting room and Hermione smiles at everyone.

“Hi Remus, hi Sirius,” she says, spotting the two men sitting on one of the couches. Sirius waves grandly and Remus smiles at her. “Nice to see you, Hermione,” he says.

Ron, standing in the corner next to Ginny, spots her and looks relieved. “Look, Hermione’s here!” he says unnecessarily loudly, striding over.

Ginny shoots him a look. “I can see that, Ronald,” she snaps. “Hello, Hermione, thank you for not dressing like a librarian. Now, Ronald, about Lavender--”

“Dinner!” Harry says loudly. “Yeah, I think it’s time for dinner. Come along, everyone—”

“—I swear if you marry that daft-headed bimbo I will cut you from my will and you won’t get a penny of my vast fortune,” Ginny is saying.

Ron’s ears are red and he retorts, “You don’t have a will, moron. Or a vast fortune.”

Ginny eyes him beadily. “Hermione is a lawyer, she can draw me up a will,” she says, waving a hand. “And _obviously_ I _will_ have a great fortune just as soon as I trick Harry into marrying me.”

Harry chokes on his wine. “Uh…”

Remus comes to the rescue. “Let’s eat, shall we?” he says, standing from the couch. “Ginny, Hermione, would you help me get the food from the kitchen? Sirius…” he eyes his husband, who grins. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m not stupid, I’m Sirius,” Sirius says, smirking.

Remus glares. “If you use that joke one more time tonight so help me God you are sleeping on the couch,” he threatens.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Yes, _wife.”_

“Get your stupid arse moving, _husband.”_

“Oy, my arse is fabulous,” Sirius says, but does indeed move towards the dining room.

Harry makes a disgusted noise. “Ugh, please keep any and all conversation off of arses,” he says. “ _Especially_ yours.”

“These arses made you, kid,” Sirius says.

Everyone groans.

“No, they did not,” Harry says. “And please and thank you, I would never like to have this conversation again.”

“Fine, fine,” Sirius says with a huff.

Remus’s lips twitch. “His arse is fabulous, I must admit,” he adds, before ducking into the kitchen.

Ginny starts cackling.

Harry turns to Hermione. “Hermione, adopt me and take me away from this hell,” he pleads. “Your father always loved me—and you’re a lawyer!”

Hermione laughs and rolls her eyes at the same time. “For god’s sake, I’m not a lawyer yet, you guys,” she says, pushing away the niggling sensation at the thought of Harvard. Of her family and expectations and how she could possibly leave this. “So please stop having me set up imaginary law suits or wills or adoptions. Legally, I can’t do any of them.”

“You could if you really _really_ wanted to,” Ginny argues. “Like if a certain talented, gorgeous, wonderful friend needed a weensy teensy piece of paper to help get rid of an empty headed cow--”

“No, I could not.”

“Fuck you,” Ginny says pleasantly. “You are fired. I’m getting myself a new lawyer.”

 _“Thank_ you,” Hermione exclaims. She turns to Harry and Ron. “Finally, I’ve been trying to get her fire me for months.”

“Having Ginny do anything is no easy task,” Harry says fondly, a dopey expression on his face as he gazes after Ginny, whose gone into the kitchen to help Remus. “She fucking makes life hell. That’s why I love her.” He drains his glass of wine.

Hermione locks eyes with Ron and they both muffle laughs. As she moves to follow Ginny, she whispers to him, “You can have fun keeping Harry sober tonight. We’re not having a repeat of the disco fiasco of ’98.”

Ron makes a face and shudders. “Fuck no.”  
Hermione laughs and enters the kitchen, a warm feeling blossoming in her chest.

* * *

 

**Monday, November 12 th, 12:30 PM**

Malfoy doesn’t show up to their Monday class.

Hermione is awkward and distracted the entire period, jumping at every noise. After she dismisses the students, she slumps against the lectern, wondering what the hell is wrong with her.

That she’s…disapointed that he’s not here.

Hermione groans, burying her face in her hands. Her phone dings and she looks and sees that Theo texted her.

 **Theo (not Theodore):** _ring me asap, granger ;) !!!!_

She frowns, but presses call and holds her breath as it rings.

He answers on the fourth ring and there’s some sort of loud thumping music in the background. “Hey, Granger,” he says.

“Don’t call me Granger,” Hermione says automatically.

She can practically see Theo’s smirk. “Why? You let Draco call you Granger.”

Her heart speeds up and she curses herself for it. “Malfoy is an arse and can’t even be bothered to show up to the class he teaches,” Hermione says stiffly. “I highly doubt he’d listen to anything I say.”

“Hm,” Theo says, not sounding very interested. “Well, he’s a fucking drama queen, so who cares about him. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about something urgent.”

Hermione’s brows flick up. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” he says. “Dismally. Horribly. I’m taking you out.”

“You’re not my type,” Hermione says automatically.

“Well, obviously,” he says. “I mean bowling.”

Hermione presses the phone to her ear. “Clarify,” she says flatly.

“Well, after my little birthday bash, as you know, Luna and I got together—”

“With nauseating public displays.”

“—but she’s off chasing some sort of Crumple Horned Snorkack thingy in Bulgaria and I am tragically alone, so I need a partner for bowling. And who better than you!” He pauses. “You bowl, right?”

“That depends,” Hermione says. “Is Malfoy going to be there?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” he replies.

“Pick me up at five.”

* * *

 

**6:45 PM**

“No way,” Hermione gasps, laughing breathlessly as she collapses onto the plastic bench. “No way you met Robert De Niro.”

 _“And_ got drunk with him, too,” Theo adds. He’s grinning from ear to ear, wearing a yellow polo shirt that hurts Hermione’s eyes. “It was fucking awesome I tell you—couldn’t hold his liquor though.”

Hermione laughs, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “I like you,” she tells him. “I didn’t think I would, but I do.”

Theo ruffles her hair and she scowls, ducking. “All part of the master plan, love,” he says.

“You have a master plan?” Hermione says dubiously.

Theo smirks and straightens his spectacles. “Every fucking special person has a master plan,” he says loftily. “And I--”

“Am fucking special, so I’ve heard,” Hermione says. The bowling alley is lit up and alive with people around them and she’s considering going another round—she’d trounced Theo thoroughly earlier and it had been a wonderful experience—when she sees Theo looking at her.

“So,” he says.

She raises a brow. “So?”

“So what’s going on with you and Draco?”

Hermione tries not to stiffen. “Nothing,” she says too sharply. Way too sharply. Which is ridiculous because there is _nothing._ “We hate each other.”

“Oh, I know,” Theo says and delicately raises one eyebrow. “I just want to know what else is going on.”

Hermione’s mind flashes to her dream, how she had another one last night and how she’d again masturbated her frustration away and her cheeks heat. She thinks about the kiss in the bar. She turns her head away. “Nothing,” she lies.

Theo eyes her, but doesn’t say anything else. “Hmph. Well, I need banana ice cream with salt on it, _right now._ ” He hops to his feet. “To ice cream land we go!”

Hermione stares at him.

Twenty minutes later, as they’re standing outside the ice cream parlor, Hermione clutching her respectable raspberry and chocolate and watching Theo happily lick his monstrosity, she says, “That is the most fucking disgusting thing I have ever seen in my life.”  
“Fuck you, love,” he says through a mouthful of ice cream and grins.

Hermione scowls.

He sticks out his tongue.

Against her will, she laughs.

* * *

 

**Wednesday, November 14 th, 7:00 AM**

Hermione wanders through the halls, scanning the files in her arms and trying not to bump into anything. It’s too fucking early for this, but she has to photocopy handouts for the lecture and Arabella Figg always hogs the printing room as soon as she arrives at 7:30 AM, so if she wants to do it, she needs to be there as early as possible.

Hermione stifles a yawn, cursing herself for staying up so late last night. But there was a rom-com marathon on BBC and she and Ron were up until 3 AM, laughing and crying over Sixteen Candles and 27 Dresses and The Holiday.

She nods blearily to some other fellow early morning person and pushes open the door to the copy room with her shoulder. She’s assisting on a case later today, so she’s wearing a black suit and her heels are murder on her shoes and she thinks longingly of her comfortable loafers.

Hermione’s so busy trying not to drop her papers and thinking about shoes that she doesn’t notice the person standing behind the door until it’s too late.

She collides with them and her papers go flying as her hands dart out to catch herself.

Hermione lets out a noise of surprise and steadies herself. “Oh, I’m so sorry--”

She looks up and meets the surprised grey eyes of Draco Malfoy.

He stares at her. “Granger?”

“Malfoy.” Her tongue won’t work properly suddenly and she feels hot. “You—um, hello.”

His brows shoot up, and his gaze goes to her papers, which are lying on the floor.

“Shit,” Hermione mutters, crouching down and gathering them up hastily. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was—hey, what are you doing in the copy room?” She straightens.

Malfoy sneers and holds up a piece of paper. “Copying,” he says thinly. “Theo spilled glitter glue over my printer and now it looks like a fucking unicorn, not to mention it’s broken. So I’m settling for this until I can get a new one.”

Hermione feels her discomfort recede and the familiar ire spark. “Well, I’m sure that’s such a tragedy for you,” she says, clenching her jaw. “Now if you’ll excuse me--”

She tries to step around him, but he moves to block her.

Hermione glares up at him. “Get out of my way,” she says calmly. Far too calmly.

But he ignores her tone. “What are you copying?”

Hermione huffs, taking a step back. “Print outs for the class,” she snaps. “We’re going over Sylvia Plath today. Which you would _know_ if you bothered to show up to class on Monday.”

Malfoy’s expression is hard to read. “I…had another engagement,” he says stiffly. Awkwardly.

 _Astoria?_ Hermione thinks.

Malfoy shifts and rolls his shoulders.

_Astoria._

“Look, Malfoy,” Hermione says, hoisting the papers higher. “Can you just get out of my way? I have exactly eighteen minutes before Mrs. Figg arrives and then I’ll never get these printed out, so stop being an arse and let me get to the fucking copy machine.”

Malfoy scowls, but steps aside.

Hermione stomps past him and begins pressing buttons on the machine and slides the pages in. This machine works horrendously slowly, so she taps her foot as she waits.

To her surprise, Malfoy hasn’t left, and she glares at him.

“Is there something you need?” she snaps.

Malfoy glares back. “No,” he says sharply.

“Then why are you still here?”

His face turns expressionless. “To ensure you don’t break the copy machines, obviously. If these go, I’ll have nowhere to print my med school handouts.”

Hermione is surprised by the rage that boils over in her. She laughs bitterly. “Oh, yes, because you’re such an important medical student—all high and mighty.” She slams the copier shut and steps towards him. “And I’m just the stupid, ‘by-the-book English major’ right? Well, this ‘stupid, by-the-book’ English major is going to Harvard Law School and if you think you are so _fucking_ superior to me--”

“I don’t!” Malfoy shouts at her. Shouts back at her, because somehow she’s started yelling.

“Oh, yeah?” Hermione retorts. She’s almost in his face now and takes satisfaction from the way he takes a small step back. She steps forward. “Then why the insult? Why have you despised me from the very moment that we met?”

“Because you’re _you!”_ he snarls in her face. He’s so close and her blood burns. “You do not want to start this right now, Granger,” he warns her.

She snorts. “Want to bet?” she hisses.

“You won't like me when I’m angry,” he says, taking another step in.

Hermione sneers at him. “Bold of you to assume I would ever like you anyway, _Malfoy._ ”

His face twists and he looks like he’s about to shout at her and Hermione prepares for the fight she’s known they were going to have since the beginning---

Malfoy grabs her by the shoulders and kisses her.

Hermione freezes, then she’s clutching his shoulders and his lips are on hers and its so much better and so much worse than her dreams---

He groans into her mouth and she kisses him and kisses him.

Malfoy’s tongue traces her lips and she grants him entrance, pulling him closer by his silk tie.

“I—hate—you,” she gasps out as he kisses her harshly, furiously.

He pulls back and looks at her. “I fucking hate you too,” he growls and then he pulls her flush against her.

Hermione sucks in a breath at the contact and presses into him, hands reaching under his shirt and tracing his skin. “You’re horrible,” she says as she kisses his neck.

“And you’re intolerable,” he shoots back, his hand smoothing over her arse, fingers untucking her shirt from her skirt.

She’s pressed against the wall, his mouth on her skin, and she has _no idea what the hell she is doing._

Hermione almost starts laughing hysterically, but Malfoy swallows the sound with another kiss.

Fuck, that peck in the bar didn’t even compare to this. Malfoy is many things, but he has one the most skilled mouths Hermione has ever encountered.

Suddenly, his hands are gone from her waist and she pants, but then her skirt is bunched up around her waist and his finger slides beneath her panties.

Hermione bites her lip to hold back a moan as he slides a finger into her, then a second one.

“Fuck,” she gasps, and kisses him hard enough to hurt.

“Granger,” he groans and he sounds furious and desperate and _fuck_ if that doesn’t do something to her. He pumps his fingers and she gasps.

Hermione arches her back, the coil in her growing tighter and tighter on the verge of release,

A crash echoes somewhere in the building and they freeze.

Hermione locks eyes with Malfoy, both of them panting and she shifts her hips, swallowing a groan at the feeling—

Malfoy kisses her roughly, digging his free hand into her hip. He whispers against her lips, “Thanks, Granger.”

Then he pulls out his fingers and steps away. He fixes his collar, sneers, and walks away.

Hermione gapes after him, her heartbeat pounding in her chest.

He did not just fucking…

She sucks in a breath, head falling back against the wall with a thunk. Her core is throbbing and her legs feel like they won’t support her weight if she tries to stand.

But the fact that he left isn’t the worst part. The fact that he left while in the middle of fingering her isn’t it either. Because she’s pissed and she’s turned on and wants to get back at him, but she’s not furious. She’s not angry.

_Fuck._

She’s not angry, Hermione realizes as she slowly pulls down her skirt and gets to her feet, because she likes him.

She likes him.

She likes Draco Malfoy.


End file.
